


This Side

by brideofquiet



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Shrunkyclunks, if you've seen notting hill .... you know where this is going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-09-15 02:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9215399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideofquiet/pseuds/brideofquiet
Summary: Bucky Barnes restores antiques for a living. Steve Rogers saves the world. Bucky has no reason to believe their paths will ever cross, right up until they do.Or: the Notting Hill AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello yes, basically I hijacked the plot of 1999's rom-com classic Notting Hill and forced it to do my bidding. If you haven't seen the film, 1) right this wrong in your life and 2) you can still read this, you'll just miss some subtle (and some blatant) nods to it. Anyways, I'm told to call it an "homage" rather than "stealing."

Of course, he knew who he was. Everyone did. He’d known him all his life, really.

* * *

“Look, I saw you stuff it down your pants.”

“No, you didn’t, because I didn’t do that,” the rangy man says, calm as anything. Bucky has no idea how a man with a full set of antique silverware tucked inside his pants could remain so calm. If he weren’t so annoyed, he might be impressed enough to let the man get away with it.

As it is, the shop really can’t afford to be out that much money this month. Bucky jabs a finger at the security camera on the wall behind him.

“Maybe I didn’t see you, but the camera sure did,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Want me to call the police down here? I could make some popcorn and we could all watch it together, see who’s telling the truth.”

The man swallows audibly, darting his eyes about suspiciously. He has no chance of escape – he’s blocked in by a wall, two armoires, and a Bucky, who heaves a sigh.

“Look, pal, I’m going to go back up to the register. Put the silverware back. If it’s not exactly where it’s supposed to be when I check later, I will call the police.” He thinks his tone sounds reasonable, but when the man nods he looks like he’s trembling. Any thief worth his salt shouldn’t scare so easily, Bucky thinks.

Also, who steals antique silverware?

Bucky returns to the front of the store as promised, leaving the man to tremble in peace. He passes a customer perusing some books on display. “We’ve got some first editions under lock over this way,” he says, pointing towards a glass-front cabinet by the register.

“Thanks,” the man says quietly without pausing in his browsing. Bucky shrugs lightly, returning to his perch behind the counter. He picks up his book and thumbs through it till he finds his place.

Voices interrupt him. “Hey man, do you think I could get your autograph?”

Bucky frowns, glancing up to see Silverware Thief shoving a piece of paper at the Uninterested in First Editions Guy. The latter takes the proffered piece of paper and pulls a pen from his own pocket. Bucky squints, but from this angle all he can see is the guy’s back and a bit of his profile. He figures maybe he’s a B-list actor or something – he didn’t really look at him.

Just as he’s decided his book’s more interesting, the customer says, “Who should I make this out to? Silverware Thief, or did you have another name you prefer?”

 _Hey, that’s my line,_ Bucky thinks. He hadn’t been aware that their altercation had been loud enough to be heard, but then again, it’s not like they play muzak in here or anything.

“Um, it’s Rufus,” Silverware Thief says in a tiny, tinny voice. The alleged celebrity signs the piece of paper and hands it back to Rufus, who takes it (with still trembling hands, Bucky’s pleased to note) and scurries out of the store. He very pointedly does not glance behind the counter on his way out.

Overall it’s not the weirdest thing he’s ever witnessed in an antique shop.

The other customer – the only customer, now – turns and approaches the register. Bucky stands from his stool as the guy sets a few paperbacks down on the counter. They’re not really antiques, the books he’s picked, mostly just ones that came with bookshelves that came into the store. He glances up from a copy of _Fahrenheit 451_ that’s seen better days to look at the guy across the counter and –

Well holy shit, it’s Captain America.

His parents are never going to believe this.

Hell, he doesn’t believe it. It’s really a wonder he barely noticed such a massive dude. Then again, he doesn’t usually try to make a lot of eye contact with the customers. He’s had a few run-ins with older ladies that made him wary of being too nice to the shop patrons.

Anyways, back to Captain goddamn America buying a Ray Bradbury novel from his goddamn antique store.

 _He’s bigger in person_ , Bucky thinks. Then he wonders if the guy actually thinks a baseball cap slung low over his forehead and slightly hunched posture is a decent disguise. Maybe it is, though, because Bucky didn’t recognize him till he took time to really look.

Bucky realizes he’s been staring for longer than is socially acceptable, so he grabs at the stack of books and quickly rings them up. He clumsily shoves them into bag and tries very hard not to watch good old Captain Rogers watching him. Is he watching him? He’s full of himself, the dude’s probably just trying to figure out what Bucky’s problem is over here.

“It’s $6.34,” Bucky murmurs. Now he has to look at the guy to take his money. What’s that thing about looking at Greek gods in their true form? That you’ll spontaneously combust, or turn to stardust or something? Captain America pulls a leather wallet from his back pocket and slips seven ones from it. He stares inscrutably at Bucky as Bucky takes the cash and counts out his change.

“Sixty-six cents,” he says, handing him his change with one hand and his bag with the other.

“Thanks,” Captain America – _Steve Rogers, that’s his name you dingbat_ – says. He nods once and ducks outside onto the street, and he’s gone. Bucky collapses onto his stool.

Well, holy shit.

His mother emerges from the back room a few minutes later to find him still in a stupor on his stool. She frowns at him, hands on hips. “Have you turned into a piece of furniture, dear? Has the store got that _Flying Dutchman_ curse on it?”

Bucky shakes himself out of it, standing so quickly his head spins. “Mom, you’ll never guess who was just in the store,” he says.

“What, dear?” she asks, half-turned away with a dust rag in hand.

Bucky rubs at his temple, still a bit dazed. Maybe it’s best he kept it to himself. “Never mind.”

“I’ve got the shop for a few minutes if you want to run out and get some caffeine,” she says, busy wiping down an already-spotless dresser. “The air would do you good.”

Bucky nods. The store’s musty a lot of the time, and a coffee sounds like just the thing to knock him out of mild celebrity-induced bewilderment. He lives in New York City, for Christ’s sake – he probably passes celebrities on the street every day! What’s gotten into him?

 

He gets a coffee from his usual place a few blocks over and picks up one for his mom as well. With one oversweet seasonal drink and one with just cream, Bucky begins the walk back to the shop. The weather is nice today so he takes his time. He’s nearly back, only another corner to go, when his phone rings. Juggling both coffees to tuck them against his left side, he just answers the phone while rounding the corner when –

There was no wall in this spot yesterday. Who put a wall here?

Oh no, it’s not a wall.

Oh no, it’s a person and now they’re both drenched in locally roasted coffee and –

Well, holy _shit_ it’s Captain America. Because of course it is.

The guy doesn’t even look mad, just shocked, which somehow makes it worse. He looks between Bucky and his sodden shirt like it will soon be revealed to him just how this atrocity could have occurred. Bucky sputters out an apology and pulls a dust rag out of his back pocket. He crowds into Captain Coffee’s space and starts dabbing at his shirt, but of course the rag’s covered in dust and it just makes the whole thing worse and why is he trying to clean a stain off Captain America anyway?

“Um,” the good Captain says and Bucky leaps backward two feet like he’s been burned. Cap still holds his hands up in the air, the way they’d gone up when Bucky had run into him.

“Sorry, I – do you need – ?” He can’t form a full sentence, flummoxed as he is. Captain – _Steve_ , god, his name is Steve just call him Steve – he finally lowers his arms, placing his hands on a narrow waist and. No, Bucky, you are not allowed to think about the way the shirt of the man you just dumped coffee all over is clinging to his chest. That is _not_ allowed.

“Do I need?”

“What?

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“Oh!” Bucky gasps. “Do you need – anything? Somewhere to clean up?”

Steve stares blankly at him. “Do you have somewhere?”

“My place is just –“ He juts a thumb up the street. “—up the street there.”

“Where up the street?” Steve asks dubiously, craning his neck to look in the direction Bucky indicated.

“Oh, the shop, it’s above the store,” Bucky says, half-turning to point towards the antique shop just up the block. Steve levels a look at him, considering. Maybe he’s wondering whether Bucky is planning on murdering him, trying to figure out his odds in a fight. Bucky likes to think he could put up a half-decent one but the guy is a super-soldier and he’s just a regular (retired) soldier, so. Probably not.

At any rate, Steve nods and gestures for Bucky to lead the way. And that’s how Bucky ends up bringing Captain Steve Rogers, legendary war hero and America’s Golden Boy, up to the apartment above his family’s little antique store.

If only he cleaned more often. Today’s embarrassment levels have climbed from mild to severe.

He ushers Steve inside, past the clutter of the foyer and into the main living area. “The bathroom’s there,” he says, pointing. “Do you want a clean shirt or something?” Truth be told, Bucky’s not sure that anything he has could fit across the breadth of Steve’s chest, but at this point he’d give him the shirt off his own back if Steve would stop staring at him like that. Bucky can’t even decide on a way to describe how he’s staring. Not like he’s mad, he’s just … looking at him. Bucky thinks he’d prefer him to be openly angry. At least that would make sense.

“Sure, that would be good,” Steve says, nodding. It takes Bucky a full second to comprehend what Steve agreed to, then he darts off to his bedroom down the hall. He grabs a pale blue t-shirt from the top of the drawer, giving it a quick sniff to make sure it smells alright.

Steve has made his way into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. Bucky knocks and says, “I’ve got the shirt.”

The door opens to reveal Steve, damp towel in one hand as he dabs at his jeans. He’s removed his brown leather jacket and stands there in just his soaked-through t-shirt. Bucky mutely hands him the t-shirt when he reaches for it. His stomach does a somersault and ends up somewhere in his throat.

“Thanks,” Steve says, and his mouth lifts into an almost-smile, like the sun just barely peeking out behind clouds.

Bucky hurries off into the kitchen, nearly tripping over the cat on his way. The thing’s always underfoot, it’s really a wonder she hasn’t been actually stepped on yet. The kitchen is a disaster, of course, because Bucky is very good at getting the dishes into the sink but very bad about getting them out. He considers briefly just how fast he could wash the leaning tower of pizza dishes when the door to the bathroom creaks open. Never fast enough, apparently.

He turns to see Steve flipping the light and closing the door behind him and – well. He was mostly right: his shirt does not necessarily span the breadth of Captain America’s ample chest, but it’s making quite a valiant effort. And Jesus Christ, does it bring out the blue of his eyes. Bucky’s mouth turns into a desert, hot and dry.

Steve does that not-quite-a-smile thing at him again, a bit awkward. He looks at the door like he wants to escape from this terrible experience as much as Bucky does. Or maybe he’s projecting.

“Thanks for the shirt, I’ll get it back to you,” Steve says, shrugging into his jacket.

“Oh, that’s fine,” Bucky says. He’s not sure he could ever wear it again anyway because 1) Steve looks better in it than he does and 2) that will be doubly true if it ends up as stretched out as he thinks it will be.

“Well,” Steve says and looks at the door again.

“Do you want some coffee before you go?” Bucky blurts. He’s suddenly very anxious to keep Steve around, if just for another minute or two. “Or maybe not coffee. Tea?”

Steve shakes his head.

“Water?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, I’m alright.”

“Something to eat? I’ve got –“ He turns to face his cabinets, sure he’s got something worth cooking hiding in there.

“I’m all set,” Steve says, and Bucky spins around to face him. That inscrutable look is back.

“Okay then,” Bucky says. He walks towards the door, Steve just behind him. They both pause just before the threshold. “My name’s Bucky by the way,” he says, because it seems rude to spill coffee all over a guy, invite him into your home, and lend him clothing without telling him your name.

“Steve,” Steve says, extending his hand. He quirks one eyebrow up, daring.

“It was nice to meet you,” Bucky says. “Surreal, but … nice.”

Steve blinks twice at him, then shakes his head. Bucky opens the door to let him out. Steve gives a little wave on his way down the stairs, half-smiling, and Bucky shuts the door before he reaches the bottom.

With a rattling sigh, he slides down the wall onto the floor and rubs at his temples. Jesus Christ, what a mess. The cat slinks over and climbs into his lap. “A true mess,” Bucky murmurs, scratching behind one grey ear.

There’s a soft knock on the door. Probably his mother, come to check why he’s banging around upstairs instead of back in the store like he’d promised. He scoops up the cat, opening the door one handed to see –

He really ought to stop being so surprised at this point.

“Forgot my books in the bathroom,” Steve says, sheepish. Bucky steps to the side to let him pass. He lets the door swing shut again but remains glued to the spot as Steve goes to retrieve his shopping bag from the bathroom. When he returns, he pauses just by the door and faces Bucky.

“Who’s this?” he asks, reaching out to let the cat sniff his hand.

“Lavender,” Bucky says. Lavender sticks her little pink nose into Steve’s hand, who acquiesces and gently pets her head. She purrs audibly in the silence that falls between the two men.

Bucky looks up from the cat to find Steve already staring at him again. Something in his expression shifts from enigmatic to … warm, and before Bucky has even a moment to comprehend that change, Steve leans in and kisses him square on the mouth.

Because he’s decided to stop being surprised by anything that happens on this weirdest of days, Bucky goes with it. He kisses him back. It’s brief, soft, but with an edge to it that cuts to his core. He doesn’t even have time to close his eyes before Steve pulls away, exhaling hot breath across Bucky’s parted lips, and that warm look has turned to fire.

There’s a loaded moment before Bucky says, “Sorry about the ‘surreal but nice’ thing. That was probably weird.”

Steve looks like he might laugh. “It’s fine,” Steve says, leaning out of his space.

There’s color high on Steve’s cheeks, bright first flowers of spring. Bucky is wondering whether he could make that color bloom wider when Steve says, “Probably best not to mention that to anyone.”

Right, because Our Country’s Greatest Hero can’t just go around kissing strange men. Bucky nods like he’s in on the joke, but Steve doesn’t seem to find it funny.

“Well, bye,” he says.

In another instant, he’s out the door and gone. Lavender mews plaintively after him, and Bucky knows exactly how she feels.

Well, holy shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from an endlessly lovely [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NbtYxEOreoc) by the same name.
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here](bvckyisms.tumblr.com) if you also cannot escape the blue hellsite.


	2. Chapter 2

He and his father are in the middle of restoring a turn-of-the-century oak sideboard when his mother calls down into the basement.

“Bucky, there’s someone on the phone for you!” Bucky glances at his dad, who stares pointedly at the veneer Bucky’s applying.

“I can’t answer right now, Ma!” he shouts back, returning to his work.

“Should I take a message?”

Bucky sighs very softly. “Please do!”

His father laughs lightly. Bucky tosses a glare at him, and he shrugs before turning back to his sanding.

Later, after they’ve finished as much as they can on the sideboard for the day, Bucky ascends the stairs to the main floor of the store. The workshop’s in the basement along with some extra storage, with the main showroom at street level. The second story is divided into half-showroom, half-living space. Bucky lives in the apartment, accessed from the street and also a thin door on the second floor that he keeps locked. The building’s been in the family since long before Bucky was even a glimmer in the eye, according to his dad. Which, whatever that means, but it’s theirs. It’s where he grew up. It’s where he’s lived almost all his life.

“Mom?” he yells into the store. That’s generally how they communicate, in here. The room is so cluttered, towering rows of furniture and tchotchke, it’s more efficient to yell than to try to find someone. A customer pokes her head around a bookshelf, how-dare-you scowl in place. _Lady, I work here_ , Bucky thinks.

“By the phone!” his mother shouts back, and the grumpy customer returns to her browsing. Hopefully all their noise hasn’t scandalized her out of buying anything.

He goes to the phone behind the counter and finds a post-it note stuck to the wall beside it. In his mother’s tidy script reads _Steve shirt call at the tower._ The air huffs out of Bucky’s lungs all at once like he’s been hit. He grabs the note and hurries to the back office.

“Ma, what does this even mean?” he asks, sticking his head into the office where she’s going over the books.

“Hmm?” she says without looking up.

“This message you took, it doesn’t make any sense,” he says, handing it to her.

She takes it and slides her glasses down her nose to get a better look. “Huh, right you are.”

“So what does it mean?”

“No idea,” she answers and leans over to stick the note to his shirt.

“No idea?” he sputters, staring down at bright yellow paper. “You took it, how can you have no idea what it means?

“I have no idea,” she repeats. “Here’s an idea though: next time answer the phone yourself!” She chirps a laugh, pleased with her own joke, and waves him out of the door.

He leaves and finds himself wandering the haphazard aisles of furniture, staring down at the note. _Steve shirt call at the tower._ Surely it wasn’t that Steve.

Then again, he doesn’t know any other Steves. Or maybe he does, it’s a common name and it would be perfectly reasonable for another Steve to have called. But the bit about the shirt – that meant it had to be him, right? He hadn’t loaned any other Steves he may or may not know any shirts recently, as far as he can recall. So: it must be that Steve, and he had called to try to return Bucky’s shirt.

He really didn’t have to do that. Bucky supposes he might actually be as polite as everyone makes him out to be, then.

It’s the last bit that’s the most troubling. Bucky leans against a huge mantelpiece and considers it. _Call at the tower._ He couldn’t mean – Avengers Tower? Good god, could he mean? That’s where they live, though, isn’t it? The Avengers live in Avengers Tower, or at least most of them do at least some of the time. It would make sense if Steve lived there.

The prospect of phoning Avengers Tower and asking to speak to Captain America is laughable. But Bucky would be lying if he wasn’t a little excited by it as well.

Truth be told, in the two days since he’d dumped coffee all over the Star Spangled Man, he’s thought of little else. As much as he might try to focus on wood grains and upholstery, federal and midcentury modern, his mind keeps drifting back to the incident, to the blue of his eyes and the warm color in his cheeks. He just can’t make sense of it, even in retrospect.

Why on God’s green earth had Steve Rogers kissed him? Not that he was fussed, he just couldn’t figure it out. He’d run through several different reasons, but none of them stuck. It just didn’t add up. So yes, an opportunity for answers was a welcome possibility.

Now he just needed to … call Avengers Tower and ask to speak to Steve Rogers, yes I’m aware that’s Captain America no I don’t have his personal line.

Steve waited two days to call. Bucky can at least wait till morning.

* * *

Lavender wakes him up at half past five with claws sunk deep into his scalp and an otherworldly yowl.

“You know, Lav, if I didn’t love you so much, I think I’d hate you,” he mumbles into his pillow, dragging the cat onto his chest. She presses her head affectionately into his face, before promptly biting his nose. Pleasant way to start the day.

He goes ahead and gets up – his alarm was meant to go off at six anyway. His dad expects him in the workshop by eight most mornings, and he’s got some errands after his morning run. He makes sure to feed Lavender before he leaves so she’ll stop shouting loud enough to wake the neighbors. At least it’s a family trait.

He returns to the apartment at a quarter till eight, one arm toting groceries and mail in the other hand. Bucky packs all the groceries away and sorts through the mail – all for the store, or from people who think his parents still live here – but eventually accepts that he’s procrastinating his final task for the morning.

It’s early, but Bucky figures an Army guy like Steve probably gets up early anyway. If not, they can play phone tag a little longer.

He finds the public line for Avengers Tower on Google.

He dials, rubbing absently at a stain on his left pinky. He must’ve missed it washing up yesterday, he’ll need to take some polish to it later to get it out –

“Avengers Tower,” comes a cool, automated voice.

“Uh, yes,” Bucky says, “I’m returning a call from Steve? Rogers? Captain Steve Rogers?” He feels more ridiculous by the second and wonders if he should just go ahead and list off all of Steve’s various titles and awards while he’s at it.

“Who is calling?” the voice asks.

“Bucky Barnes.”

“One moment,” the voice replies, and then the phone is ringing again. It must have patched him through to Steve’s personal line. Or maybe they have some guy whose job it is to tell people off for trying to call the Avengers for no reason. _Listen, buddy, they’re busy and you can’t just call them up to say hi._

He doesn’t have time to get worked up before Steve answers. Steve always seems to catch him before he has time to work up to much of anything.

“Hello,” Steve says, not a trace of sleepiness to his voice. Bucky feels vaguely satisfied about getting that right.

“Steve, hi – it’s Bucky.” He pauses, before adding, “From the coffee. The antique store. _Fahrenheit 451_.” Like maybe Steve doesn’t keep track of all the strangers he kisses.

“Hi, Bucky,” he says. Bucky expects him to continue, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“I was returning your call from yesterday,” he prompts, sitting down at the kitchen table.

“Oh, of course!” Steve chimes. “I want to return your shirt. Are you busy today?”

“I can make myself not be busy,” Bucky says, which. Wonderful syntax, Bucky, truly you are a gift to the English language.

Steve laughs, and Bucky does too even though he’s not quite sure whether Steve’s laughing at him or with him.

“I’m afraid I’m tied up here, otherwise I’d come to you,” Steve begins. “Would you be able to come to the Tower today? Around lunchtime?”

“Sure,” Bucky says and breaks into a broad grin. Lavender stares at him from the kitchen counter with baleful eyes, like she knows he’s going to see her new favorite person without her.

“Great!” Steve says. “I’ll give them your name downstairs and you can come right up.”

“Should I – eat lunch beforehand?”

Steve hums a little sound. “You can if you want, or we can eat here. Either way.”

“Okay,” Bucky says.

“Okay you’ll eat beforehand, or okay we can eat here?” Steve presses.

Bucky huffs a laugh, wondering if Steve likes giving answers as much as getting them. “Okay we can eat there.”

“Great!” Steve repeats.

“Great,” Bucky parrots.

“Well, I’ll see you soon then.”

“Sure,” Bucky says and then disconnects before Steve says anything else with ten times more enthusiasm than necessary.

He wonders just how long he’ll keep getting surprised by Steve Rogers.


	3. Chapter 3

There isn’t much work to be done in the basement this morning, just finishing touches on the sideboard and a few upholstery jobs that aren’t due till next week anyway. Bucky finishes as quick as he can and leaves with a wave to his dad, who thankfully asks no questions about where he’s running off to.

Bucky’s mother, on the other hand, is considerably nosier.

“Why on earth would you need to go into Manhattan on a Thursday?” she asks. He’d tried to be cagey about the details, but she wouldn’t let him go without giving her something.

“I’m a grown man, I can go where I want any day of the week,” he says, albeit less confidently than the words really warrant. Grown men still get nervous about talking back to their mothers.

“Sure, sure, just leave your dear old mother to fret over whether you’ve been killed by a taxi driver or another of those aliens – it’s Manhattan they always attack …” She trails off and presses the back of a hand to her forehead like she might faint. Bucky heaves a great sigh.

“I’m meeting a friend for lunch, alright?” he caves.

She spins around much too quickly than is strictly polite. “A friend? Sam?”

“No, you don’t know him.”

“Oh,” she crows and gives a knowing wink before turning back to her work. Sometimes Bucky wonders why he willingly chooses to work with his parents. This is decidedly one of those moments.

That conversation leaves him with just about ten minutes to get dressed and out the door. He debates the merits of various cool-toned sweaters for five of those, finally deciding on a deep green and tying his hair back out of his face. Another five minutes and he’s on his to the subway station.

The trains are running slow, as per usual, but he manages to get to Avengers Tower at half past one. That’s still lunchtime, right? Right.

It’s easy enough to get into the lobby of the building, but after that he’s at a bit of a loss. Various suited people hustle in and out of elevators and stairwells, all looking terribly important. Eventually he spots a reception desk tucked away in a corner.

“Hi, I’m here to see Steve Rogers,” he says to the lady at the desk.

She eyes him indifferently for a beat before asking, “Who are you with?”

“What?” Himself?

“What publication?” Bucky commends her on her ability to refrain from rolling her eyes, and then thinks, _What?_ What publication? What does that even mean? Like a magazine?

He names the first one that comes to mind. “The _Times_.”

“Oh,” she replies, eyebrows raised. She taps a few keys on the screen in front of her. “That elevator will take you.”

Bucky nods and smiles, turning to the elevator she’d indicated. The doors open as he approaches, and he finds that the floor number has already been input. Right then, up we go.

In the lift, he wonders whether he should have brought – something. Flowers? What’s appropriate to bring to a lunch with a guy who you spilled coffee all over? Is this even – is it a date? Bucky very suddenly realizes that he has absolutely no idea what he’s about to walk into.

And apparently he was more correct about that than he could have imagined. The doors of the elevator slide open. Beyond them, the cavernous room is a swirling mass of activity, all bright colors and brighter lights.

Before he has time to comprehend any of it, a tall woman with strawberry blond hair approaches him. “Hello, Fiona said she just sent up a writer from the _Times_. Is that you?”

“Um, yes,” Bucky says. He tries very hard to school his deer-in-headlights expression into something resembling professionalism.

“I’m Pepper Potts,” she says, extending her hand. Bucky takes it and – wow, strong grip. She looks at him expectantly.

“Bucky Barnes,” he says.

“Oh.” She looks surprised. “Are you a new staff writer, or a freelancer?” Of course this lady would be familiar with all the writers at the _New York Times_. He should’ve gone for something more obscure. _Horse & Hound. Upholstery Monthly._

“Freelance,” he answers. Fake it till you make it.

“Okay,” she says dubiously. “Here, you can talk to Clint first.” Then she’s ushering him to one side of the room, and he finally gets a moment to glance around. The roiling madhouse materializes into some sort of … press junket, maybe? That would explain why the lady at reception asked for his credentials, and why he is now being herded towards … oh good god, that’s Hawkeye.

Clint Barton gives a jovial smile as he and Pepper approach. He’s got on day clothes instead of his uniform, though maybe the purple of his shirt is meant to add familiarity. “Clint, this is Bucky Barnes. From the _Times_.”

Bucky feels like he should be offended by the pointed look Pepper gives Clint. Just as she turns to go, Bucky says to her, “Oh, Steve Rogers should be expecting me.”

Again with the borderline insulting skepticism. “I will let him know you’re here,” she says though, and then sweeps away into the crowd.

“Hi,” Clint says, extending a hand.

“Hi,” Bucky replies, shaking his hand. What the hell is happening.

Bucky glances over his shoulder nervously, unsure of what to do. Clint clears his throat. Oh right, he’s supposed to like, interview Hawkeye or something.

“So,” he begins, lingering on the vowel while he thinks of a question. “Do you … like being an Avenger?”

“Beats the circus,” Clint replies, deadpan. Bucky does not know what that means, but he nods thoughtfully because that seems the thing to do. Maybe not though, because Clint laughs at him.

“Do you like being a reporter?” he asks. Wait a minute, isn’t Bucky supposed to ask the questions? Isn’t that normally how interviews work?

“Not really, no,” he says, which earns another laugh from Clint. At least he’s two-for-two on making Avengers laugh today.

The conversation drags on like that for a few minutes before Pepper reappears. “Captain Rogers will see you now,” she announces. She and Clint exchange a loaded look as she drags him away.

They approach a secluded corner, set up with two armchairs by the windows. Steve faces away from them, silhouetted against the wide window. Bucky’s heart does an embarrassing little tap dance against the walls of his chest.

“Steve, here’s Bucky Barnes,” Pepper says.

Steve turns and smiles coolly at the both of them, every bit the professional. “Thank you, Pepper,” he says, nodding to her.

“You’ve got five minutes,” she says to Bucky. She’s gone in another instant, and they’re as alone as they can be in a crowded room.

Bucky just sort of stares at him, unsure. This is not the situation he was prepared for. He was prepared for lunch – for sandwiches and a beer and maybe some light flirting. He was not prepared for whatever this is about to be.

Steve’s smile widens into something less polished and turns sheepish. “Sorry, I thought this would all be over with by the time you got here, but apparently I was wrong.”

“Apparently,” Bucky says. Steve gestures for him to sit, and they take opposite armchairs.

“Your shirt’s in my room. I thought it would be hard to explain if I held onto it in front of a bunch of journalists,” Steve says.

Bucky nods a little dazedly. “What’s even going on here?” he asks, glancing around the room. There must be several dozen people here – superheroes and organizers, reporters and photographers.

Steve shrugs bemusedly. “Some kind of press event Pepper set up,” he says. “I don’t really know what it’s for, but I do whatever she tells me to do.”

“Seems like that’s a wise choice,” Bucky says, and Steve’s laugh is loud and genuine.

“Sorry again,” Steve says, sweeping a hand out to indicate the madness outside their little bubble of space. His hand lands on the back of his neck as he continues, “I just wanted to apologize for the other day – for the kissing thing. I thought this would be over by now. I just wanted to make sure you were fine.”

“Fine, yes, absolutely,” Bucky says. He’s not entirely sure if he means it, but he says it anyway.

“Good,” Steve says with a smile.

Bucky stares at him for a beat before his mouth takes off with no warning. “I’m sorry, this is all – I’m a complete moron. None of this even feels real. Not today, not the other day – it’s all kind of –”

“Surreal?” Steve cuts in, twinkle in his eye.

“Yes,” Bucky says, serious. “Like a dream.”

Steve takes a long, slow breath. His voice drops low and he leans forward, elbows on knees. “And what happens next? In the dream?”

They hold eye contact for a moment, and Bucky would swear his lungs have gone missing. A current of energy cracks between them, and it’s all he can feel. The light from the windows hits Steve just perfectly, shining through his eyes like they were gemstones.

In the next moment, Bucky shakes himself out of it. _Like they were gemstones._ Honestly, Barnes.

“I wake up, probably.”

Steve’s expression darkens, and he’s just opening his mouth to say something when Pepper reappears with none other than Iron Man at her heels. “Time’s up,” she announces with a stern look between the two of them. Tony Stark looks interestedly between Pepper and the other two men. His eyes catch on Bucky’s left hand, glinting in the afternoon light. He shoves it under his thigh but not before Stark can point and say, “That’s mine!”

“Excuse me?” all three of the others say at once, various levels of startled. Then Iron Man’s rushing up to Bucky, both hands extended like a kid at a toy store unsure if he can reach the action figure on the top shelf.

“Not the whole thing, just parts. I’ve never seen one installed and functioning. Can I take a look? Please?” Bucky’s not sure whether he can actually say no or not, given whose building he’s in, but Stark does sound like he’s asking and not demanding. He reluctantly pulls his hand out from under his leg and offers it up for inspection, rolling back his sleeve for better access to the whole thing. Stark’s on him in an instant, babbling on about neurotransmitters and self-adjusting plates and a bunch of other technical jargon. Bucky’s pretty sure he’s talking mostly to himself and so he doesn’t feel badly about not paying attention.

Steve, for his part, only sits back firmly in his chair. He seems displeased somehow. As Stark runs deft fingers over the plating of his palm, Bucky wonders at that. Surely Steve had noticed – it’s not like Bucky tries to hide it anymore, really. He’d stopped wearing the glove after a year or two. Actually he’s quite used to Stark’s behavior, though usually it comes from people forty years younger than him. It comes with the territory of having an experimental cybernetic prosthetic. Adults try not to be obvious about staring, and kids think you’re a robot. It’s a good trade-off, Bucky’s always thought.

Eventually Pepper gives an impatient sigh. “That’s enough, Tony. You’ll have another chance to ogle the poor man when he interviews you.” Tony relinquishes Bucky’s hand, though Bucky can see how much it pains him. “Let’s go,” she says, gesturing to both Stark and Bucky.

“One more question?” Bucky blurts unthinkingly. Pepper considers for a moment, then nods and vanishes again. She’s like a ghost, or maybe she’s secretly a superhero herself. Thankfully Stark goes with her.

“What’s the question?” Steve asks, and Bucky snaps back to attention.

“What?”

“You said one more question. What is it?”

Oh. He considers for a moment and then says, “Are you busy tonight?” Apparently there’s something emboldening about having Iron Man take such an interest in your metal arm. Or maybe he’s just smooth.

Steve’s mouth does something wobbly. “I can make myself not busy.”

_Hey, that’s my line._ “Great – shit!” Bucky slaps a hand to his forehead, the right one thankfully.

“Great shit? Is that an expression?” Steve asks, somewhere between perplexed and amused.

Bucky moves both hands to cup his own cheeks. There’s a red mark on his forehead “No, I – I forgot. It’s my little sister’s birthday and I’m supposed to have dinner at her house tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?” Bucky asks, hands sliding down to his chest.

“Okay I’ll, you know, be your date to your sister’s party. If that’s alright.” He smiles, shy and sweet.

A reflecting smile breaks across Bucky’s own face. “You will?”

“I will.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I leave all of your comments to answer between classes, and they've really brightened up a dreary start to the semester. Thank you all for being so sweet. I hope you enjoyed this week's chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky shuffles his feet on the street corner where he’d told Steve to meet him, tucking his jacket more firmly around himself. The street’s quiet – his sister and her husband live in a quiet neighborhood, a good one. It’s walking distance from the shop, if you really commit to it. No sense in paying cab fare if he could just walk. He thought the cool night air would do good to clear his head.

It hadn’t worked, of course, but it had been a nice thought.

This is a date. A real one, not a maybe-date that turns into a fake interview. Bucky is about to have a date with Captain America.

And what a date – his sister’s birthday dinner, of all things. Thank somebody his parents had unavoidable commitments with some community charity event. The whole thing would’ve been dead in the water in the first five minutes if Steve had had to meet his mom.

Just then, a black sedan rolls up to the curb. It stops, the door opens, and out gets Steve. He waves the driver off and turns to face Bucky, looking embarrassed. “Hi,” he says, smile lighting up his face and his voice.

“Hi,” Bucky says back. He takes a step towards Steve, arms parted in invitation, and Steve steps into the hug. They embrace for only an instant but Bucky can feel how warm Steve is even through all the layers between them. It can’t really be helped if his hands linger as they part.

“Hi,” Steve says again. Bucky grins. “Which direction is it?”

“This way, just up the street,” Bucky says and turns to his left. They walk slowly, close enough to touch.

“Oh,” Steve says suddenly, “I wasn’t sure what to bring so I just –“ He holds up a bottle of red wine Bucky hadn’t noticed, a Malbec with a pretty label.

“You didn’t have to bring anything,” Bucky admonishes.

“It’s her birthday,” Steve says, like it was the only thing to do.

“No, it’s sweet,” he reassures him. “She’ll appreciate it, I’m sure.”

Steve nods. “What did you get her?” he asks, glancing down at Bucky’s empty hands.

Bucky smiles conspiratorially. “Oh, you’ll see. It’s already inside,” he says and points to the door they’ve just arrived at. He knocks, and turns to Steve. “I have to warn you, everyone’s kinda … loud.”

Steve looks at him confusedly. “Kinda loud?”

Just then there’s a muffled shout from beyond the door. It sounds like, “Come in!”

Bucky laughs at the timing and pulls open the unlocked door.

There’s a chorus of “Bucky!” as soon as they’re over the threshold.

“And mystery date!” a female voice calls.

“Bucky, man, I thought I was your date! Are you stepping out on me?”

From where they stand just inside the door, they can’t see anyone else in the house yet. Bucky turns to Steve with his eyebrows raised, _See what I mean?_ That earns him an understanding grin.

“Let me take your jacket,” he says, reaching out a hand. Steve turns to let Bucky help him shrug out of his jacket, then returns the favor. As Bucky’s hanging the jackets on hooks by the door there comes another shout.

“Brother Barnes! Stop macking on your date and get in here!”

“Hold your damn horses!” he yells back. He turns to Steve and takes a deep breath, fortifying himself for what’s sure to be an interesting evening. “Ready?”

Steve nods firmly, and he actually looks excited, pleased to be here. Bucky feels warm with it. They set off down the hallway together, backs of their hands brushing.

Just before they reach the living room at the end of the hall, there’s an explosion of sound as something small and dark-headed flings itself right at Bucky. He catches his sister in a hug, and she wraps her arms tightly around him. “Jeez, Becks, you didn’t wanna wait on the booze till we got here?”

“I can’t just be this happy to see you? I have to be drunk?” she asks, pulling back to look him in the eye. His same eyes reflected, mirror image of their mother’s eyes too.

“’Course not, I’m joking,” he says and tucks her back against his chest for another moment. “Happy birthday, baby Barnes.”

“Thanks, Bucky,” she murmurs before disentangling herself completely. “Now who’s this date?!”

“Uh,” Bucky says, glancing over his shoulder. He’d instinctively stepped in front of Steve to protect him from his sister’s deadly hug attack, inadvertently blocking him from view. Now he sidesteps so he can introduce him, but before he gets a word out –

“Holy shit, it’s Captain America,” she whispers, awestruck.

“Happy birthday,” Steve says, red cheeked. He holds the bottle of wine out to Rebecca, who stares at it blankly like she’s forgotten what wine is or maybe how to use her hands. Bucky coughs and she snaps back to life, taking the bottle with a theatrical flourish.

“Rebecca, this is Steve,” Bucky says. “Steve, this is my baby sister Rebecca.”

Smiling, Steve says, “How do you do?” and holds out a hand to her free one, all old-fashioned manners and charm.

For all her erratic behavior a few moments ago, she does seem to have recovered her good graces. She takes Steve’s hand and smiles warmly at him. “Hi, Steve, thank you for the wine. It’s great to meet you and to have you in my home,” she says. Steve practically beams at her and Bucky makes a mental note to thank her for that later.

“Y’all coming in here or what?”

Rebecca spins around and prances back into the living room. “Yes, sorry, my brother was just introducing me to his lovely date,” she says significantly. Bucky rounds the corner behind her with Steve at his side.

Sam and Rami are sprawled across the living room, both with nearly empty wine glasses in hand. Another glass – this one actually empty – sits on the coffee table. Bucky chooses not to comment. Rami’s draped over a chair with his back to them, but Sam sits on the couch facing the new arrivals. His eyes pop wide as dinner plates as soon as he sees them.

Bucky winces, grabbing at Steve’s wrist to brace for impact.

Fortunately, though, Sam recovers himself quickly. “Hey, Buck, good to see you,” he says and stands up to pick his way around the coffee table. “Who’s this?” he asks. Sam’s mother may receive a letter shortly, detailing just how grateful Bucky is for the manners she instilled in her son.

“I’m Steve,” says Steve.

“Steve?” Rami says, head lolling back on the arm of the chair to look at them upside down. His glasses teeter precariously off his nose “Steve!” he exclaims. In a moment he rights himself, smashes the tortoiseshell frames back into place, and springs to his feet. “Captain Steve Rogers!” His hand spasms up to his shoulder in what looks suspiciously like an aborted salute.

“Yes, okay,” Bucky says, “Captain America is in our midst and I’m going to give you all exactly three seconds to be weird before you shut up about it for the rest of the night.”

Steve looks at him, astounded. Then he nearly doubles over with laughter, grabbing at Bucky’s shoulder for balance. A beat later everyone else follows suits, and whatever sort of tension that had been building in the room dissolves. After they’ve all recovered, Bucky says, “Okay, three seconds are up, no more weird behavior.”

“Oh, but Buck, that means you’ll have to leave!” Rebecca crows. This sets everyone laughing again. Except for Bucky who glares at Steve like he’s betrayed a great confidence. Steve shrugs at him, clearly unapologetic.

“Anyways!” Bucky calls, throwing his hands up. He’s glad the strangeness has ebbed, but he’s done letting it be at his own expense. “Steve! This is my brother-in-law, Rami!” He points at Rami who has sunk back down into his chair. “And this is everybody’s friend, Sam,” he says.

Sam, who’s still standing near them, extends a hand to Steve. They shake. “When he says everybody’s friend, he meant yours too. We’re friends now. Deal with it,” Sam says. Steve looks one part confused and two parts happy, so Bucky decides he doesn’t need to rip up that letter to Sam’s mom.

“Is dinner still happening or did you guys just decide to have grapes instead?” Bucky asks once everyone’s settled into the living room. Rebecca squashed herself into the chair with Rami and Sam opted for the floor, so Steve and Bucky have the whole couch to themselves. They sit with their thighs touching, just the lightest point of contact.

“Oh, it’s ready,” Rami says with a wave of his hand towards the kitchen. “We were just waiting for you two.”

“Then what are we doing in the living room?” Sam asks. About half a second later he’s already made it to the kitchen. Everyone else gets up a little more slowly.

Dinner goes better than Bucky could have hoped. Rami’s a good cook and luckily he’d had everything together before he got too far into his cups. But as much as he’s grateful for a good meal, Bucky is even more grateful that everyone seems to have taken his warning seriously. Nobody treats Steve weirdly. They include him in the conversation, explain nonsensical inside jokes as best they can, get him laughing. The strange thing is, Steve looks more thankful than even Bucky. But he supposes that makes sense – people must treat him like something to be worshipped half the time.

Bucky admits he had a little trouble seeing past the Captain America moniker at first, too. Hell, he grew up learning about the guy in grade school, and now here he is sat next to him at his sister’s dinner table. On a date. The unreality of that juxtaposed with the normalcy of everything else about the situation is a lot to wrap his head around. He’s trying, though.

Of course, someone has to say something weird. It’s Rebecca, who has never been good at maintaining boundaries for more than about twenty minutes, like her mother before her. At least she had the decency to wait till after they were done eating.

“Well, Steve, having you here has put into perspective just how dull the rest of us truly are.”

Bucky knows he should be appreciative that she lasted as long as she did, nosy as she is. He still kicks her shin under the table. She jabs a sharp heel into the top of his foot.

“Oh, that’s not true,” Steve says. He sounds like he’s about to go on, explain just how fascinating they all are, but Becca cuts across him.

“I don’t mean it badly!” she says, reaching across Bucky to pat at Steve’s hand. “In fact I take pride in it. I’m going to give the last brownie to the saddest act here.” She sits back heavily in her chair, proud of the little contest she’s concocted. The brownie in question sits alone on a plate in the center of the table, decadent and tempting.

Bucky looks at Sam across the table. “You first, Sam.” There’s no doubt Rebecca will make them see this through to the end.

“Oh, that brownie is mine. I’m an Air Force veteran who tries to help other veterans come to terms with all the shit they’ve been through for a living while simultaneously dealing with my own shit.” Bucky notices Steve twitch beside him, but he doesn’t interrupt. “I haven’t had a steady girlfriend since last year. My mom lives 1,300 miles away so I never get to eat her cooking.” He reaches greedy fingers for the brownie, but Rami slaps his hand away.

“Hey now, it’s my turn. I got absolutely slaughtered in my peer review last week – not one person had one nice thing to say. I’ve got two grant proposals due next week. My students are terrible this semester. I think I’m coming down with an illness,” he finishes lamely.

“You’re not ill, dear, you’re just drunk,” Rebecca says and kisses his cheek. Rami folds forward till his forehead’s on the table. “Me on the other hand, I’m drunk on my birthday, but not just because it’s my birthday. I had a miscarriage last month.”

“Shit, Becks,” Bucky gasps. He places a hand on her arm, and she smiles at him wetly. Rami rises from his stupor to put a comforting arm around her, though he looks just as stricken. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s terrible,” Steve murmurs beside him.

“It’s okay, though, we’ll be okay,” she says.

Sam breaks the quiet moment. “I don’t know, though, I think Buck might be the winner. Dude’s still working for his parents and living in his childhood home. He used to be handsome but not since he stopped cutting his hair.” Steve reaches up to honk Bucky’s bun like a bicycle horn, laughing. Bucky frowns exaggeratedly. “Not to mention his name’s _Bucky_. I’m surprised Steve even wanted to talk to him after he found that out.”

Everyone laughs now, the mood of the room considerably lighter. Sam’s good like that. Steve leans over to whisper into his ear, “I like your name.” Bucky flushes, hot down to his toes. Jesus, did the heat kick on in here just now?

“So I get the brownie then?” he rasps as Steve leans away.

“I think you do, yes,” Sam answers.

“Wait a minute,” Steve chimes in. He looks around the table like they’ve all gravely offended him. “What about me?”

Sam scoffs. “You think you deserve it? Prove it, or I will fight you for that most delicious of brownies.” Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky sees Rami beam. He must be so proud that his baking could incite violence.

“Okay,” Steve huffs. Bucky half-turns in his chair to look at him, and he seems to be gathering himself. “I grew up dirt poor and barely made it past childhood I was so sick. Then I fought Nazis for a couple years. I thought I sacrificed my life to save the world in 1945, but it turns out I just got frozen in ice for seventy years. When they found me and woke me up, everyone I knew was either dead or close to it. I didn’t age a day, but the whole world had changed. No one could understand how that felt. Nobody ever tried.”

The room is quiet. Bucky reaches over and takes Steve’s hand. Steve squeezes his fingers and says the rest directly to him. “Now I fight aliens and master criminals with a bunch of off-kilter, hotheaded people in spandex for a living.” Bucky cracks a wan smile, and Steve returns it before looking out across the table. Probably checking to make sure he didn’t make anyone too uncomfortable.

Sam reaches out for the brownie again. Instead of keeping it for himself, though, he hands it across the table to Steve with a concerned expression on his face. Steve takes it and eats half the thing in one bite before holding the rest out to Bucky.

“Oh no, Steve, that’s your only reward for sacrificing yourself for the good of humanity. Keep it,” he says, hands up. Everyone laughs, and soon the conversation turns to lighter topics.

A little while later, Bucky and Steve have taken up posts in the kitchen. They’re the only two sober enough to do the dishes, and Bucky figures it’s only polite to do them anyway. They work quietly, Steve’s hands deep in the warm water and Bucky on drying duty.

“Oh hey, Rebecca!” Steve calls when they’ve finished. Bucky makes a face. What’s he doing? “Bucky said I’d see what he got you for your birthday when we got here, but that hasn’t happened yet.”

“Yes!” she calls excitedly. She rises from the couch and wobbles into the kitchen. Bucky catches her by the elbow before she topples into the sink. “Come see, it’s in the office!”  She forcibly hooks both of her arms through one of each of theirs, and Bucky leads the way down a short hallway to the first floor office.

“Isn’t it beautiful!” she cries when they reach the door. Pulling her arms free, she shuffles forward and hugs the side of a massive roll top desk. Still clinging to it, she says, “He made it! For me!”

Steve turns to him, eyebrows raised, and Bucky laughs. “I didn’t make it, I just restored it for her.” This only seems to impress Steve more, who approaches Rebecca and the desk. He runs a hand over the richly colored wood. Bucky walks forward to stand beside him, gently prying Rebecca off the thing so he can slide open the tambour. “See, it’s got all these pigeon holes and drawers…” he trails off, pointing out individual features. Becca glues herself to his side, weeping softly into his shirt.

“This is really beautiful,” Steve says softly. He turns to look at Bucky beside him, and in the low light of the room sparks catch between them, almost visible.

“Yeah, it is,” Bucky whispers back. He longs to reach out and –

Rebecca reminds them of her presence with nothing less than a scream. “So beautiful!”

Bucky shudders out a laugh. “Yeah, Becks, it’s beautiful. Maybe we should get you to bed.”

“Maybe,” she says and leans even more of her weight onto Bucky so that he’s practically carrying her.

“Here, let me,” Steve says. He maneuvers around the small room so that he can scoop Rebecca up into his arms, bridal style. It doesn’t even look like he has to exert considerable effort. A few wicked thoughts scatter around Bucky’s head, but he bats them away with his sister in the room.

“Her bedroom’s at the top of the stairs,” Bucky says to Steve’s questioning look. He follows the pair of them out into the hall.

As Steve and Rebecca ascend the stairs, Bucky makes a start for the hall to grab their jackets. He’s stopped by Sam, who pulls at his arm till he’s forced to flop down on the couch beside him. Sam gathers him in close. “Quick now, tell us what the hell you’re doing here with Captain fuckin’ America, man!” he slurs conspiratorially.

“National icon!” Rami hiccups, curled up like a cat in the armchair. His glasses have disappeared.

Bucky decides they won’t remember whether he answers or not. “You staying here tonight, Sam?” he asks.

“Am I staying here tonight, Rami?” Sam repeats.

“Yeah, man, you’re staying here tonight,” Rami finalizes blurrily. Bucky gives Sam a quick side hug and then pushes off from the couch just as Steve descends the stairs. They meet at the foot.

“Some people just can’t handle their booze,” Bucky says, looking over his shoulder at the men passed out on the couch.

Steve laughs softly, covering his mouth with a hand to muffle the noise. Bucky turns to look at him, a fond smile pulling at his lips. “Ready to go?” Steve asks.

“Ready to go,” Bucky answers. They head for the door, Steve flipping off the light switch on their way out.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a quiet, cold evening. Steve and Bucky walk side by side, close enough to share each other’s warmth but with hands shoved deep inside jacket pockets. No one else is out at this hour – surprising for New York, but not for this particular neighborhood in Brooklyn.

“So,” Steve starts, “you refinished that desk, you said?”

Bucky huffs a self-conscious laugh. “Oh yeah, it’s the family business. Or did you think my only job in that shop was to ring people up?”

“Oh no, of course not – I just didn’t –“

“I’m joking,” Bucky assures him. Steve shakes his head, smiling. They walk together in silence for a short while before Bucky says, “My place is a few streets over if you wanted to…” He trails off, unsure about what he’s trying to imply. Well, no, that’s not true. He knows perfectly well what he’s implying, but he doesn’t want to put Steve off by coming on too strong. Best to leave it open to interpretation. Maybe he means a nightcap, perfectly innocent.

“That’s complicated,” Steve says. Bucky looks sideways at him, wondering, but only nods in response. He doesn’t know what’s complicated about it, but he won’t pry if Steve isn’t willing to give an answer. Maybe the Avengers have some sort of celibacy pact, though that seems unlikely given Tony Stark’s very public exploits.

After all the noise of the evening, the quiet that lingers between them feels comfortable rather than awkward. Bucky’s not one to fill up silences with unnecessary chatter anyway, but something about this moment feels full. Whole and unhurried. It’s a nice feeling, warm in his chest.

Soon they come upon a fenced-off garden between two buildings. The gate bars any trespassers, but beyond the high wrought iron lies a lush green space – a little urban jungle. Steve pauses, reaching out a hand to stop Bucky.

“That’s nice,” he comments. Something in his tone implies the desire for a closer look.

“That’s private, unfortunately,” Bucky replies, pointing to the heavy lock over the gate. Steve scoffs, tossing a smirk at Bucky over his shoulder and reaching out a hand to tug lightly at the padlock. For a brief instant Bucky’s worried he might just yank it right off, and then he’s wondering whether he actually could. Steve doesn’t do that, though – instead he starts to climb the fence.

“Steve! What are you doing!” Bucky whispers and looks around furtively. Even though he’s already halfway over the fence, Bucky grabs at his ankles like he might be able to pull him back over. Steve just laughs, loud and unabashed.

“Don’t you want to see the garden?”

“You’re trespassing!”

“Yes.” Steve looks over his shoulder at him, and the glint in his eye makes Bucky drop his hands. In one graceful arc Steve vaults over the fence, but he stays clinging to the other side. He reaches out a hand to help Bucky up. “Are you coming?”

This is the start of a very troubling dynamic. Bucky takes his hand anyway and climbs up and over the fence. They land together on the other side, a dull thud against the ground.

“I’m surprised at you, Captain America,” Bucky says, half-scandalized and half-impressed. It’s not like they’re doing anything particularly egregious – sneaking into a private garden is hardly a federal offense. But he wonders at how easy it was to just follow him over. How easy it would be to follow Steve anywhere, if he asked him to go.

The mischievous light behind Steve’s eyes fades into something more earnest. “The headlines and history books don’t get everything right, you know,” he says.

The pinch between his brows – Bucky wonders what else he keeps wrapped up beneath that public persona. Or what’s been covered up without his consent. Suddenly it’s all he wants, to crack through that exterior and unearth the real Steve below. The one that existed before any of the rest of this did.

He reaches out and takes Steve’s hand in his own, real one. He can feel the warmth in his fingers, the steady pulse beneath his skin. “No, I’m beginning to see that they don’t,” he says softly.

Energy blazes between them, heating up the cold of the air. Bucky is an exposed wire. Steve steps closer to him, looking into his eyes for a long moment before –

They lean forward together, meeting in the middle. Bucky’s lips find Steve’s, and it’s soft and loaded and perfect. His free hand finds its way to Steve’s cheek, cupping it, and Steve pulls him in closer with a hand on his hip till they’re flush together. They melt against each other, feverish, and Bucky feels like he might burn up from the inside out. Like just this, this point of contact, could be enough to do him in.

He gasps in a breath, breaking apart to lay his forehead against Steve’s. His thumb strokes gentle circles over the apple of Steve’s cheek, raised now in a smile. They’re both breathing a little heavily, he’s pleased to note.

“Nice garden,” Bucky says. Steve laughs like sunlight and pulls Bucky back into his warmth.

 

It really is a nice garden, actually. The plants are well tended and there’s even a water feature. Bucky might take the time to admire it if he weren’t too busy being bowled over by the man on the bench beside him. He keeps remembering who he is, and then thinking about _how_ he is, and the convergence of those ideas is nearly enough to make his head explode. He can’t think what Steve sees in someone like him, but he’s not about to risk asking that aloud. The spell of the evening might break.

They sit flush side by side, hands laced together over Steve’s thigh. It’s nice, Bucky thinks, to just sit with someone like this.

“I like your friends,” Steve says. “Your sister, too.”

Bucky smiles affectionately. “Sorry they all got so messy,” he says.

He feels more than hears Steve laughing, low rumble down his right side. “No, I had a nice time,” he says earnestly. “I’m kind of jealous, actually. They seemed like they were having a lot of fun.”

Bucky turns to look at him, frowning. “You could’ve drunk more, I wouldn’t have cared.”

“That’s sweet, but it wouldn’t have made a difference,” he says. Bucky’s brow pinches in confusion. “I can’t get drunk.” Now Bucky’s brow rises to meet his hairline. Can’t get drunk? What kind of cruel world? The history books really don’t mention everything. Though, he supposes, it might have been inappropriate for his fourth grade teacher to spend a lesson on Captain America’s imperviousness to alcohol. Probably would’ve gotten phone calls about that one.

“You on the other hand. You,” Steve repeats, and pokes a finger into Bucky’s chest, “could have, and I hope you didn’t abstain on my account.”

The snort rises up in him before he can stop it. “Of course I stopped on your account! What, let you see me sloppy on the first date? I don’t think so, pal, I’m trying to be suave here.” He runs his free hand through his hair, looking over at Steve with his best movie star pout. It’s apparently not very good, because it makes Steve shake with laughter, which makes Bucky pull his hand away roughly and scoot to the other end of the bench with a real pout in place. Just wait till he tells the country how rude their beloved hero was to him on their first date.

“Hey, no, get back here!” Steve slides after him and tucks him neatly into his side. After a moment of half-hearted squirming, Bucky acquiesces and lays his head on Steve’s broad shoulder.

They stay that way for a moment. In the quiet, courage lights the tiniest match in his heart. If Steve could open up to a table of strangers, surely he can say this one small thing into the lapel of Steve’s jacket. “I don’t really drink anyway.”

“Oh?” Steve says. His tone makes Bucky sure that he understands the significance of that.

“No, I –“ he starts, but he doesn’t know how to phrase it. He doesn’t tell people this, any of it. Not anyone who’s not obligated to keep him in their lives, or who’s not trained to respond without judgment anyway. He lifts his head to meet Steve’s eyes, and when he does – they’re open. Clear, waiting, patient. The match burns brighter. “My friend Sam,” he says, and stops again.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “He’s a vet?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says.

“You are, too,” Steve says.

Bucky blinks heavily, but he supposes it’s obvious without saying. His whole left arm’s made of metal, for Christ’s sake. And they tend to recognize their own. “Yeah, I am. Army, though,” he says. Steve gives an emphatic nod of approval. “I met Sam through the VA. He helped me out of a rough place when I got back home. I don’t know where I’d be without him.”

Steve nods again, solemn and knowing this time. He gives Bucky’s shoulder a tight squeeze, holds him a little closer. “You’re better now?” he asks. The genuine concern in his voice makes something catch in Bucky’s chest. His breath, he supposes, or maybe his heart. He realizes suddenly that Steve gets it, he understands on an intimate level in a way that only shared experiences can provide. They’re both just men who fought for their country – still fight, in Steve’s case – trying to navigate a world that seems so different on the other side of that.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I’m better. Not perfect, but who can be? You just have to find what works and keep doing it.” Steve frowns, eyes on his lap. Bucky ventures a risk, prying at that polished exterior. “Have you found what works for you, Steve?” he asks.

The look Steve gives him is overwhelming, blazing, belying an inner life that Bucky is only just beginning to understand. “Yeah, Bucky, I think I’ve started to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday update! Hi! I did the math and realized that if I only post on Sundays, this thing won't be fully birthed until almost May, so. Here we are. Sundays are my sure thing, but I'll post on Wednesdays too when I have the time. 
> 
> Also reminder that you can find me on tumblr [here](bvckyisms.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined.


	6. Chapter 6

Dating Captain America turns out to be a whirlwind, but not in the ways Bucky would have expected.

They spend a lot of time together over the next few weeks, doing incredibly regular things because Bucky has a hunch that Steve doesn’t have a lot of opportunity or occasion to do them. He should learn to make opportunities, Bucky tells him. So he does, on the condition that Bucky does them with him.

So they go to the movies. Bucky likes sci-fi best, but Steve prefers animated features so they see every one that’s showing. When Bucky finds out Steve hasn’t seen a Disney movie since _Bambi_ , he starts planning a marathon to get him up to date. “You don’t even – you’ve never heard of Pixar? Studio Ghibli? Jesus, Steve, where’ve you been, trapped in ice for the past seven decades?” That earns him a bat on the head.

It also turns out that Steve is very limited in his knowledge of ethnic foods. “We could barely afford to cook at home, much less go out,” he tells Bucky. “Now there’s so many choices, I don’t know what’s good.” So Bucky takes him on a food tour of Brooklyn. Steve likes Vietnamese, Mexican, and Italian best. He asks that Bucky please never take him to another French restaurant ever again in his life.

It’s easy now, for Bucky to separate the man and the mask. He realizes that it’s so wholly different to know superficial details about someone than to understand what those details mean, where they came from. He knew Steve was from Brooklyn, like him; he didn’t know how much that meant until he saw the way Steve lit up just being in the borough. Like a light came on, like he’d come home – or as near to it as he could get, now. He radiates, and Bucky spends most of his time just trying not be blinded.

This whole country, this whole world, filled with people who thought they knew him – but Bucky gets to be the one who really does. Or he’s on his way to being, anyway. The weight of that, the privilege, sits heavy on his shoulders, but it’s a load he’s happy to carry.

Steve comes around to the store sometimes, to see him. Only while his parents aren’t there, though.

“I’d love to meet your mom.”

“Yes, and she’d love to hold you hostage in the basement for questioning as soon as she finds out there’s someone I’m interested in.”

“Oh _, interested_ in, huh?” That conversation had gotten off topic very quickly, much to Bucky’s two-fold delight.

They’re down in the workshop today. Bucky’s been teaching Steve a bit about furniture restoration, because he asked if he would and Bucky is nothing if not obliging. Okay, fine, he’s a sucker but don’t tell. Steve has an eye for it, as it turns out, with an incredible attention to detail – an artist’s eye.

They work quietly together, staining a tilt-top table. Something about the job brings out a sense of real peace in people, Bucky thinks. It’s to do with the tactile, patient nature of it, working with your hands and your mind together to bring something beautiful back to life. It has purpose. It’s soothing.

It occurs to Bucky that Steve causes much the same kind of calm in him. He looks up from the wood when he thinks this to find Steve already staring at him, warmth lighting low in the cool blue of his eyes. He could get used to this, having him here. It feels familiar already.

Later they go to dinner at some restaurant in Manhattan that Steve had found on Yelp. (Bucky is loath to admit it but Mr. Twentieth Century is better with a smartphone than he is. Listen, there’s too many apps.) It’s Vietnamese, sleek and modern, and they’re tucked away in a corner booth with about as much privacy as a place that doesn’t put shades of any of its light fixtures can offer.

They’re close to finishing up when Bucky asks, “Have you ever painted?”

Steve sits back, surprised. “I have, actually. Why?”

A smug smile spreads across Bucky’s face. He feels like the cat who got the cream every time he figures out something new about Steve. And he’d know, he’s a cat owner and Lavender preens for days when she gets cream. “Just seemed like you knew what you were doing with the staining,” he says.

Steve’s cheeks color, embarrassed, as he takes another bite of pho. Bucky leans forward to press him on the topic when a raucous voice cuts across the noise of the restaurant.

“God, look, another headline about _the Avengers_.” The man twists the words to sound babyish, like they disgust him. The sound comes from the booth behind Steve, who stares purposefully at his chopsticks.

“What’d they blow up this time?” comes another voice, derisive. Bucky stiffens in his seat.

“Some factory in Pennsylvania, allegedly run by A.I.M.,” the first voice says. Steve meets Bucky’s eyes then, wary. That mission had been two days ago; Steve had taken point on it. He’d told Bucky as much about it as he could.

“Is there any proof of that?”

“Who knows, not like Captain America cares anyway. He’ll just barge in there and take it out if there’s even a lick of suspicion.”

“Captain Self-Righteous, more like,” says the second voice.

Steve’s mouth presses into a thin, pinched line. Bucky neatly plucks his napkin from his lap and drops it on the table. “Alright,” he says before standing up in a rush. Eyebrows raised, Steve reaches a hand out to grab his arm, but Bucky shakes him off. If Steve really wanted to stop him, he could.

Bucky sweeps over to the table behind them, menacing as he knows how to be. The two men at the table glance up at him, alarmed.

“Do you wanna keep talking like that, or do I have to shut you up myself?”

One of the men bristles angrily, holding onto his butter knife like it might do some real damage. Bucky has the decency not to laugh in his face, though he deserves it. “What, am I not allowed to have an opinion about the tyrants that run around this country unchecked?”

Bucky identifies him as the first man who’d spoken. He leans over the table, metal fingers gripping its edge hard enough to leave an impression. “Do you mean the people who fight to keep you _safe_ –“

He’s cut off by Steve, who does use the force of his strength now to pull him away from the table. It’s lucky he grabbed his left arm or there might be bruises. Bucky splutters indignantly, but the fire fades out of him as soon as he looks at Steve’s pleading face.

He sags back down onto the bench, shamed. Steve can fight his own battles; if anything’s obvious, it’s that. “I’m sorry.”

Steve shakes his head at him and makes to sit back down too. “It’s fine, Bucky. It’s – I love that you tried. About 1940 I’d have done the same…“ His back snaps ramrod straight then, so sudden Bucky starts. There’s something catching in his expression. “On second thought,” he says, and springs back up from the table. Bucky scrambles to follow him.

“Hi, boys,” Steve says to the men at the table, not unkindly. There’s an edge to his voice, though, a dangerous undercurrent. “May I ask how you know so much about that mission I led the other day?”

From his position firmly planted at Steve’s side, Bucky sees the two men blanch. _Yeah, he’s bigger than you think he will be, shocked me too_ , he thinks. Voice One fires up quickly, though. Apparently he’s looking to get hit. “It’s all on the internet!” he shouts.

“Is it now? Can you tell me what website, so I can call them up and ask how they got hold of classified mission debriefings?” Steve asks. The anger in his voice burns low, hot like coals.

The two men don’t have an answer for that, it seems. The first one just stares between Steve and Bucky, vein throbbing visibly in his forehead, while the other guy looks down at his plate.

“Next time you’ll wait till you have all the facts before you start criticizing the people who risk their lives to save yours,” Steve says, and the sternness there would put anyone in their place. The man finally looks away.

In another minute, Steve’s left money on their table and guided them out the door.

The cool of the night seems to temper Steve’s anger, to turn it to worry.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. He’s turned all jittery, nearly vibrating at Bucky’s side.

“No, you were brilliant,” Bucky assures him. He takes Steve’s hand in his own and gives it a squeeze, hoping the point of contact might be enough to ground Steve. “What’s different between now and 1940 that made you hesitate?” he asks, hoping to distract him.

Steve huffs a laugh. “You start winning most every fight, eventually you have to learn to be more judicious about it,” he says. He sweeps a hand down his own body for emphasis. That’s what’s different.

“It’s just,” he says haltingly. Bucky doesn’t interrupt; he’ll continue if he has something to say. “Sometimes it gets under my skin. Sometimes those guys might be right.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, gently refuting. He ducks his head to catch Steve’s eye. What he finds there is complex, dark.

“We don’t always make the right call, Bucky,” he says. “We try, but we’re not perfect. Sometimes the wrong people get hurt.”

Bucky pauses, pulls him into a doorway out of the way of pedestrians. He lifts his free hand to rest at the connection between Steve’s neck and shoulder, grip firm and reassuring. “You’re right, you’re not perfect,” he begins. “You can’t always make the right call. But you’re doing what you can to make the world a better, safer place, and that’s what counts. You’re doing your job.”

Steve looks thoroughly abashed. “Of course you get it, I’m sorry –“

“Don’t apologize,” he says, trailing his hand up to cup Steve’s cheek. “It’s good that you’re worried, it means you care. I do understand, and I’m here to listen when you need to talk about it.”

Looking like he might burst with gratitude, Steve reaches up to cover Bucky’s hand against his face with his own. “Thanks, Buck,” he rasps. Bucky leans in and kisses him just gently on the mouth, then brushes his lips across Steve’s smooth cheek. He pulls back to check that Steve’ okay, and he still looks wobbly but not like he’s planning to hit anything anymore. He gives him an encouraging smile, and waits till Steve returns it before pulling him back out onto the sidewalk.

Steve calms down more fully, as they walk. The streets are busier here than in Brooklyn, but he wraps his hand more firmly around Bucky’s and leads him down street after street. Bucky resolves to walk forever if that’s what Steve needs right now. Eventually, though, he looks up and realizes where they are.

“Oh,” he says, in the glow of light spilling out from the entrance to Avengers Tower.

“My feet just took me here, I guess,” Steve sighs. He turns to face Bucky, who meets his eye. “Do you want to come up?”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot halfway to his hairline. These past few weeks they’ve mostly spent in Brooklyn. Bucky never really asked why, never really wondered honestly, but he assumed it had something to do with privacy or Steve needing to get away. Now his brain tries to jump to several unhelpful conclusions about why Steve has never invited him back to the Tower.

He lets out a slow breath, apprehensive. “It seems like there are a lot of reasons why I shouldn’t,” he says quietly.

“Yes,” Steve says, and steps closer. “But there are more reasons why you should.” His voice and his face and everything else are rich with implication. Bucky shivers.

“Hard to argue with that logic,” he says. When Steve tugs on his hand to lead him into the building, he follows without a backward glance.


	7. Chapter 7

His second visit to Avengers Tower is much different than the first. For one, he’s being personally escorted to the elevators by Captain America himself.

Steve drops his hand when they push through the doors, throwing an apologetic smile Bucky’s way. It doesn’t bother him, though – there are a lot of people in the lobby. Why are there so many people in the lobby? It’s like, 10 p.m. Do Stark employees not sleep?

They go into an elevator, a little one half-hidden behind a wall of plants. It requires a code input to even call the elevator; Bucky supposes it leads directly to the residences. As soon as the doors snick shut in front of them, Steve takes his hand again. Bucky looks over with the dopiest grin imaginable, and Steve tries very dutifully to stare at the wall but then he’s smiling too and turning to face Bucky. It takes only a few seconds before Bucky’s resolve breaks, and then he’s crowding Steve against the wall of the tiny space as the lights ding up, up, up.

So far they’ve been taking it slow. They kiss, sure, but that’s about it and Steve rarely accepts his offers to hang out in his apartment. Bucky doesn’t know what it’s about, hasn’t pressed, figures it has something do with the “it’s complicated.” He has convinced himself that he doesn’t mind, and in some ways, he really, truly doesn’t. There’s enough to learn about Steve’s mouth, about the sharp edge of his jawline and the smooth column of his neck, without factoring in the rest of him. Bucky wouldn’t know where to begin if he were suddenly granted access to that much territory.

But whatever it is that’s been holding Steve back the past month seems to have fallen away. He connects his mouth to Bucky’s almost forcefully, desperately, clawing at his hips to gather him in closer against the long lines of his body. Bucky’s hands loosen from the knots he’s made in the front of Steve’s shirt, real one flattening against his chest and metal one snaking up to knot into the short hair at the nape of Steve’s neck. He gives a sharp tug, and Steve gasps aloud – Bucky takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tilting his head sideways for a better angle. He feels warm all over, every point of connection white hot like he might be singed. He thinks he’d be okay with a few burn marks, for this.

Steve moans around his tongue, and if Bucky could spend the rest of his days hearing that noise he wouldn’t be long for this world. It’s glorious, this, and he’s glad that Steve lives so far up. Steve’s hands move with purpose over his back, up and around like he’s trying to map out everything, and when they sink lower it’s Bucky’s turn to gasp. His eyes fly open and he pulls back, looking into Steve’s eyes with pupils blown so wide he can barely see the blue.

He knows his own eyes hang heavy-lidded, half-drunk on the promise of the moment. He blinks slow, once, and bites at his own reddened lip.

Steve adjusts his grip on Bucky’s ass, sliding one hand lower to cup it and haul him in impossibly closer. Bucky’s just going in for Steve’s neck, time for it to get some attention, when the door dings open.

Bucky laughs into Steve’s collar bone, a soft huff, and Steve curls his arms around Bucky’s torso into something more innocent. How old are they, to get so carried away in an elevator? They’re acting like two horny teenagers with twenty minutes till someone’s parents get back from the grocery store. It’s nonsensical – they’ve got all the time in the world.

He pulls back to remind Steve of this, that there’s no need for them to go from about 15 miles per hour to 150 in a matter of minutes – but he stops short at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Steve?”

The elevator doors drift closed, left ajar for too long.

“Shit!” Steve exclaims. His hands fly to Bucky’s shoulders, pushing him away to arm’s length.

“Check the mouth on you,” Bucky drawls before taking the time to actually look at Steve’s face. His eyes are blown wide, and not in the heady way of moments earlier. He looks nervous.

“Steve, what –“ he starts, cold worry chasing away the heat in his system. But then the door’s opening again and Steve’s smoothing out his shirt and then his hair in rapid succession. Bucky doesn’t understand what’s got him all worked up (besides himself, but this isn’t that kind of worked up anymore) and then. He sees.

The doors part to reveal Tony Stark, standing before them in a neatly pressed suit.

Bucky runs a quick hand through his hair, though he’s sure there’s not much good to be done about it. Maybe he can work the messy chic angle. It’s lucky they were shoved against the side wall of the elevator rather than the back one – he’s almost certain Stark didn’t see anything. But then, does that even matter? Suddenly he’s not sure.

“Good evening, Cap,” Stark says, eyes casting between the two of them. He quirks an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you would have company.” Something in his tone makes a small part of Bucky bristle, like he’s sure he meant it unkindly.

“Tony,” Steve greets him with a nod of his head. In the time since the doors opened, he seems to have regained his cool demeanor. “This is –“

Stark cuts across him. “Bucky Barnes, journalist for the _New York Times_ ,” he says. “We’ve met.”

Bucky frowns, looks to Steve expecting him to correct Stark, but Steve doesn’t look at him. Instead he says, “Yes, that’s right,” and exits the elevator. It doesn’t feel like propriety, or even prudence.

His jaw pops open, and then snaps shut with an audible click. He can’t stop the way his brow pulls low over his eyes, though, as he shuffles after Steve out of the lift and into what must be the lobby outside his residence.

“Barnes,” Stark says, and it takes Bucky a moment to realize that he’s being addressed. He tears his mind back from the brink and his eyes off the floor to look Stark in the face. “I combed the _Times_ for your article and never found it. Has it been published yet?”

Again Bucky looks at Steve, for correction or guidance or something, anything, but Steve just stares back at him blankly. The smallest frown plays at the corner of his mouth. “Uh, no, not yet,” he mumbles.

“Oh, I guess that why you’re here with the dear Captain then, isn’t it? Getting some more information for the profile?” Stark asks. He continues before Bucky has a chance to answer. “You never did make it to me, if I remember correctly. We could set something up, if you’re interested.”

Bucky nods mutely, shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’ll have my people call your people,” he says flatly. He busies himself by staring at a vase of flowers placed serenely on a little end table. Not an antique – the vase or the table – but handmade and nice all the same.

Steve finally speaks up. “What exactly are _you_ doing here, Tony?” he asks. His tone is almost rude, some small part of Bucky’s heart that’s not yet gone to ice is pleased to note.

“I wanted to go over some team strategy stuff with you, if you’ve got the time.”

“Sure, yeah – go ahead inside, I’ll be there in a minute,” he says.

“Sorry to cut in, Barnes,” Stark chimes as he walks through the door to Steve’s apartment. Bucky doesn’t bother answering, still staring the flowers. They’re orchids, but he doesn’t know what kind. He doesn’t know much about flowers. Sunset orange.

“Buck,” Steve breathes, close to him. He glances to his right to see Steve standing a foot away, hands spread in an apology. “I’m sorry, he just –“

Bucky cuts him off. “No, Steve, it’s fine. I’ll go,” he says. He feels sick, suddenly, stomach knotted tight. “I can see that I should just go.”

Steve makes to grab him by the arm, by the shoulder, something, but Bucky shrugs him off and backs away. He mashes a hand into the elevator call button. “Bucky, please just wait…”

Bucky huffs a wry laugh, no humor in it. “Wait for what, Steve? For one of the other million reasons this can’t work to get in the way?” He stares Steve in the face as he says it, and he knows he’ll hate himself for it later. Steve’s face cracks, breaks, shatters like Bucky’s shot him through the gut. Hell, he hates himself for it right now.

But he meant it. He knows it’s true. Steve wouldn’t have crumbled like that if he didn’t know it, too. They’ve been treading a very careful line these past few weeks, pretending that there was some way they could balance this. As much as they might have in common, their lives just don’t fit together. Their circles don’t even touch. It was always doomed, he just didn’t expect Tony goddamn Stark to be the one to show them how much they’ve been fooling themselves. Or how much Bucky was, anyway, thinking he could have a real place in Steve’s life. And Steve – what? Thinking he could hide away with him across the bridge, wholly separate from his life on this side of it?

He was always going to wake up from the dream.

“Is there anything I can say to make you stay?” Steve asks, pleads. It’s barely above a whisper. Bucky hardly hears him at all.

“Go do your job, Steve,” Bucky says, voice surprisingly even. He feels like he might choke. “Go save the world.”

The elevator arrives, and he backs into it, presses the button for the lobby. Steve stares at him, hollowed. For one awful instant he thinks Steve might throw himself into the elevator after him, and his will breaks and he takes a step forward, tears spilling over –

And the doors slide shut. He gathers himself back in, takes a deep breath, and rides down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated Valentine's Day...?


	8. Chapter 8

It isn’t until he nearly slices his finger off that Bucky’s father says anything. Even then, it’s short and clipped and Bucky barely hears it over the crinkle of the bandage wrapping as he tears it open.

“What’s the matter?”

Bucky looks up from the shallow cut on the pad of his thumb to find his father’s eyes on him. George Barnes is a taciturn man who prefers to let his wife do the talking, and she’s just pleased to do it too. Bucky’s not sure he’s heard his father string more than twenty words together at a time in all his life. He knows that doesn’t mean George doesn’t love him, though; he knows that his father is a man who feels very deeply. He just shows it by bringing Bucky a cup of soup when he’s sick, running a bath for his wife after she’s had a long day, using his deft hands to learn how to braid Rebecca’s hair in all kinds of intricate ways.

Bucky’s father doesn’t often ask what the problem is because most of the time, the rest of his family will say something anyway. They’re loud. His mother and sister can’t keep a thing to themselves and never tried, either.

Bucky knows that if his father is asking, he must be in a bad way.

Shit. And here he thought he’d been doing so well to keep it together.

He knows there’s no point in brushing it off, but he’s not looking to share much either. His father rubbed off on him: he can be loud, sure, but he’s private. He squirrels away his secrets without even realizing it sometimes.

“It’s,” he starts, and stops. George gives him a long, considering look and then returns to sanding the table before him. This is a gift: Talk if you want, but I won’t press you.

“I’m okay, Dad,” Bucky says. He finishes bandaging his finger, wrapping it up tight. “Or I will be. Probably. Hopefully.”

George nods, though Bucky isn’t sure if he’s affirming the quality of the wood grain or what he’s said. It doesn’t really matter. “If you say so,” George says.

He makes him leave the workshop then, something muttered about blood stains and wood stains not mixing well. Bucky heads up the steep staircase to the main level of the store, where he finds a dusty leather armchair, and he sits.

He puts his face in his hands and breathes a ragged, slow breath. It hurts going out.

The scene at the elevator happened just two days ago, two and a half now. Almost three, in about ten hours. But who’s counting, really? It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself. It’s over. It twists like a knife in his gut, in his heart and his lungs, every time he thinks about it. But he’s been wounded before, and he’s always healed from it before, and when he couldn’t heal he got a robotic replacement. Are there robot parts to replace your insides? Can the robot parts still feel like this?

He knows it’s for the best, really he does. Bucky sinks down lower into the chair and curls in on himself and thinks about how much better off he and Steve are both, this way.

They’d lived in a bubble for that month. A nice bubble, one with a gleam when the sunshine hit it, all rainbow colors in the afternoon. They had escaped public notice, escaped parental notice – but maybe that was it. He had been an escape for Steve, a way to get free of his real life, and then that real life had come calling and they’d realized. Steve is too important a person; he can’t hide himself away in Brooklyn, hide half his life away with Bucky in Brooklyn. It’s unfair to him, to have to do that, and now Bucky sees that it was unfair for himself as well. He didn’t spend years slogging through the experience of being gay in the military just to shove himself into the shoe bin in the corner of the closet once he’d come home. He deserves someone who won’t keep him a secret.

And maybe Steve has to, maybe the public pressure would be too much, and Bucky understands that as well as someone who doesn’t have to deal with it can, he _does_. But that doesn’t mean he has to be the person who bears it. He won’t take one step forward, three steps back – much as his heart might say that it wants to. Much as he might be willing to try.

But there’s no trying now. It’s over. It’s done with, it’s past, and all that’s left to do is leave it where it lies and move forward.

He stands up from the armchair and dusts himself off. A bell sounds from the front of the store. He rings a cheery old lady up for a set of antique silverware, and he even remembers to smile at her.

* * *

Sam shows up that night with a tub of ice cream the size of Bucky’s head.

“Your mom called,” he says when Bucky opens the door to let him in. Jesus. Of course she did.

“I guess it’s too much to ask for her to mind her own damn business,” Bucky says. He ushers Sam into his living room and they both collapse onto the couch. The whole space is unnaturally tidy, the product of a man desperate for distraction.

“She said something about watching you stare at some blue vase in the store for five solid minutes, and thought you might be cracking up again,” Sam says. Bucky flinches hard, turns it into a motion that takes him all the way into the kitchen to grab spoons. There will be no bowls for this ice cream tonight.

“Did she now?” he calls on his way back.

Sam nods a slow, “Mmmhmm.” He takes the spoon Bucky gives him and pries the lid off the top of the tub. It’s double dark chocolate, not necessarily Bucky’s favorite but arguably the most appropriate for the situation. “Care to comment on the vase staring?”

Bucky does not care to comment and makes that quite clear by grabbing the ice cream from Sam in a way that could be considered “aggressive.”

A confession: He’d been dusting in the second floor showroom and stumbled across the vase. It was a deep, rich ocean blue – just the slightest hint of green, in the slanting light of the morning. It was the exact color of Steve’s eyes.

Bucky will go to his grave before he tells anyone at all that he cried over a vase the color of his ex-whatever’s eyes. Not even Sam gets to know that.

So he shoves his spoon deep into the ice cream, and then shoves the ice cream deep into his mouth. And does it again, all while frowning quite impressively.

Sam gives him a long look. He’s good at those – long, quiet looks where’s he’s calculating but not judging, trying to figure out what the best thing to say is. “She means well,” he says softly. Bucky hands him the tub, because he knows Sam is right. His mother does mean well, even if her methods are questionable sometimes. Like his father, she doesn’t always know the right thing to do, but she does what she can in her own way. And it would make sense that she worried – he’d been rough for a long, long time after he had come home.

Suddenly Bucky feels deeply touched. He makes grabby hands at the ice cream.

They put back half the gallon in silence. Bucky knows that Sam’s waiting for him to speak, because he won’t make him. _You have to genuinely want help, if you want it to help,_ he’d said once. The phrasing’s convoluted, Bucky’s always thought, but he knows what he meant. If you’re not ready to talk, if you’re not ready to try to make it better, talking won’t help and it won’t get better.

Bucky isn’t sure he’s ready for it to get better, but he thinks he might be ready to talk. He’s barely talked to anyone about this whole situation from the beginning. Maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe he was hiding, too.

“Steve and I … broke up, I guess,” he says. He says it to his lap and the ice water washes over him again. But he can tread water, with Sam here.

“Man, I’m sorry,” Sam says. Not an _I thought so_ or a _What happened?_ Just an apology. That sucks. I’m sorry. Bucky rolls his head over to look at him, and Sam’s looking back with an expression he’s perfected from years working at the VA. It’s sympathetic, even empathetic, without the tiniest trace of pity.

See, this is why Sam is the best. This is why Sam is his best friend.

The dam in his brain breaks and suddenly he’s talking a mile a minute. “I don’t even know what the fuck happened,” he says. “One minute we were headed to his place and we were having such a nice night. A great one, I think we were going to – and then Tony Stark shows up and everything just went to hell in a goddamn handbasket. It wasn’t Stark’s fault or anything,” Bucky covers, because it wasn’t and he knows Sam loves Iron Man. He doesn’t want to take that from him, because Sam is the kind of friend who would rip up his trading card collection in an act of solidarity. “But he just. Steve just. Fuck.”

He collapses forward, folds over himself and lets his hands hang down onto the floor. The couch cushions shift and then Sam’s right next to him, rubbing comforting circles into his back. “Is it something you can fix? Or that Steve could?”

“I really don’t think so,” Bucky mumbles into his knees. He turns his head, lays his cheek on his thigh so he can look up at Sam. “It wasn’t one specific thing that did it. Just the straw that broke it, y’know.”

“If it’s for the best, then you’ll be okay,” Sam says.

Bucky knows that he’s right. But what he doesn’t know is if it really was for the best.

 

He doesn’t cry until later. In fact he hasn’t cried at all, not since those few tears as the elevator took him back down to the lobby.

Later, though, after he’s talked himself hoarse and they’ve eaten the entire gallon of ice cream plus some leftover soup in the fridge – later he cries.

They decide to watch a movie, something with lots of stupid jokes and airheaded people. Sam flicks on the television. It’s on a news station and –

“Oh shit,” he murmurs, and turns the volume up.

It’s a breaking news broadcast, with bright red emergency banners flashing across the bottom of the screen. The footage is live from somewhere on the west coast. It shows a street, people streaming down it towards the camera, away from something. In the distance Bucky can just barely make out something red and flying, something green and massive, a shock of blue and white and red.

A bright light flashes. It obscures everything on screen, turning it into a blanket of solid white. Then the footage cuts out.

The news anchor pops back up on screen, her jaw slack and open. It takes her three full seconds before she recovers and launches into what few details the media know.

There’s something shaking, something rattling him from deep inside his chest, oh god is it an earthquake? Sam is there an earthquake in Brooklyn? A noise like plane engines roars in his ears, loud and heavy and he can’t even hear the newscast anymore and there’s something _wet_ –

“Buck!” Sam shouts, right into his hear this time. Bucky jerks away and in quick succession realizes that the plane sounds and the wetness are coming from him, and that Sam’s been shaking his shoulder but also he’s shaking himself, shivering like he’s been left out in the cold for hours.

He can’t even call him, to ask if he’s alright. Or maybe he could. He’s not sure if he’s allowed. The whole situation’s fucked.

Sam cuts off the television. Bucky turns into him, clings to him. Sam holds him, and he cries.

 

The next morning Sam has to go to work, but before he leaves he makes breakfast with every available ingredient in the kitchen and stays to make sure Bucky eats all of his half. Anything else but Sam’s cooking would probably taste like ash in his mouth, but there’s something about grits that feels good down to the tips of Bucky’s toes. If southerners get one thing right, it’s breakfast food.

Sam makes him promise not to watch too much news, or read too much on the internet. He himself promises to call later, to check that Bucky is functioning at some level. He hugs Bucky from his perch at the breakfast bar and then sees himself out.

Bucky does what Sam tells him. He takes a shower and gets dressed. He feeds his cat and gives her a good scratch behind the ear. He goes down to the store and greets his mother. She gives him a tight-lipped smile when she sees the dark circles under his eyes, the burst blood vessels on the high points of his cheeks.

“Did Sam ever make it over?” she asks, innocent as anything.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He looks up from the counter and meets her eye. “Thanks for calling him, ma.”

“Any time, dear,” she says, and musses his hair like he’s eight. He finds that he doesn’t mind so much, right now. He’s grateful that she doesn’t press him, for once.

When he goes down to the workshop, his dad’s just folding up a newspaper and standing up from a refinished rocking chair in the corner. “Did you see this?” he asks, shaking the paper in one hand.

Bucky takes in a short, shallow breath and grabs for the hand tools he needs. “Yeah,” he answers.

“Tragic,” George says. “All those civilian casualties.”

Bucky hums in response, throat going tight. He gently peels back the cracked veneer on a china cabinet, drizzles glue underneath.

“Those guys work so hard,” his dad says. He says it like an apology, with compassion.

“Yeah, they really do,” Bucky breathes back.

* * *

They close up shop a little earlier than usual, and Bucky’s parents go home to a different part of Brooklyn. He takes the rickety staircase in the back up to his place, unlocking the door with the key above the doorframe. Stuck with disuse, he has to shove it with a shoulder for it to pop open.

Lavender slinks up the hall to him and winds her way around his legs, mewling plaintively. Bucky picks her up and snuggles her in close.

He wanders into the kitchen, cat still in arms, and wonders what he’ll do for dinner. He’s not sure what he’s got left – he hasn’t been to a grocery store in ages. There might be some dry pasta, maybe a tomato if he’s really lucky. Lavender springs onto the counter when he gets close enough, and he’s just opening the cabinets to see what’s there when the buzzer goes off.

Who could be here? He’s not expecting anyone. Maybe his mom called Rebecca and Rami too, afraid to leave him alone for even one night. Christ.

He shuffles over to the door and presses the call button. “Hello?” he says into the speaker.

“Bucky?” comes a familiar voice, weary as the world.

A shock like lightning cracks down his spine, radiating outwards into his fingertips and toes and the ends of his hair. Didn’t he tell himself to stop being surprised?

“Steve,” he breathes into the box.

“Can – is it okay if I come up?” Steve asks through the tinny speaker. Bucky doesn’t even respond, just mashes the other button to buzz Steve into the building.

He can’t wait. He throws open his door at the top of the stairs, just as Steve’s opening the door at the bottom. From the dim light of the hall he can’t see much of the other man, but the set of his shoulders makes him look smaller than usual. Steve starts up the stairs.

Bucky’s body expects him to tumble down the staircase to meet Steve halfway, crash into him like a wave on the shore, ocean meeting sand. But he doesn’t. He stands stock still and waits for Steve to reach him, because he has no idea why Steve is here. Or what his being here means.

It means he’s alive. It means he’s okay. Okay enough to make it here, anyway.

It means Steve wanted to see him. His heart thuds a lurching beat.

Steve reaches the top of the stairs, and Bucky sidesteps to let him inside. Pressing the door closed behind them, he turns to look at him.

His hair is a mess. Normally it’s combed neat and tidy, but right now it’s stuck out at all ends in a way that’s clearly unintentional. There’s an angry red line across his temple, covered with medical tape.

And his eyes. Bucky realizes that the vase wasn’t anywhere close to the real thing – how could he forget so quickly? The blue’s deep enough to swallow him. But Steve’s eyes are tired, and rimmed with red. And staring into Bucky’s own eyes like he’s scared the floor might be yanked out from underneath him at any second.

“Hey,” Bucky breathes, for lack of anything else to say.

“Hey,” Steve replies. His hands twitch at his side like he wants to move.

Bucky makes it easy on him. He steps forward, reaching up to wrap his arms around Steve’s neck and draw him in close. Steve’s own arms wind around Bucky’s midsection, warm and bracing.


	9. Chapter 9

Two steaming cups of coffee sit on the living room table, untouched. Two men sit on the couch, opposite ends from each other and both tucked up into themselves. Steve stares at his knees. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky stares at Steve’s knees too. Eventually Lavender appears to sit on Steve’s knees.

“It was a trap,” Steve says, his face grave and grey. “We should have known it was a trap, a diversion, a – we should have seen. I’m the tactical leader, I should have noticed sooner and then maybe –“ The words are too heavy to make it out of his throat, but Bucky’s seen the headlines by now. _43 civilian casualties in botched Avengers mission. Iron Man injured. Black Widow injured._

“It’s not your fault,” Bucky says. He means it.

Steve sighs, deep like Atlas must sigh. He rests a heavy hand on Lavender’s back, and she presses up into his touch.

“I’m sorry I just showed up here,” Steve says. “The Tower feels all wrong right now. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“This is the place.”

Steve looks up from the cat then, finally really looks at Bucky and the weight of his gaze is almost too much for him to take. There’s an echo of that brokenness from outside the elevator, magnified – but something else, too. Bucky thinks it might be hope. He isn’t sure what to do with that.

“Thank you,” Steve says. Lavender chirps at him.

“Do you need anything?” Bucky asks. He needs Steve to stop looking at him like that. “Something to eat? A bath?”

Steve frowns for the briefest instant, and then his face smooths over and he almost smiles. Not quite, but it’s a work in progress. “A bath sounds great, actually.”

He shows Steve how to work the faucets and leaves him to it. “If you need anything, just yell,” Bucky says. Steve huffs air through his nose, not quite a laugh, like that made him remember something. Bucky scurries out of the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.

He settles back onto the couch with his book, coffee that’s gone cold, and his cat. Only one of the three comes close to holding his attention, and that’s mostly because she digs her claws into his leg when he stops petting her.

“What the hell is happening, Lavender.”

Lavender doesn’t answer, mostly because she’s a cat but also because she has a record of not caring about Bucky’s problems overmuch. She headbutts his stomach.

 

An hour later, Bucky’s only read about ten pages of his book, and Lavender has gone off to lay on top of the heating vent. The sound of water pouring down the drain breaks him out of his stupor. Bucky jumps up from the couch and grabs the small pile next to him, hurrying over to the bathroom door. He knocks very softly.

“Yeah?” Steve calls from behind the door.

“I thought you might want some comfier clothes,” Bucky says.

“Oh, sure,” Steve says, and Bucky’s just about to lay them on the floor when the door creaks open and there’s Steve’s face, peaking around it. He’s just visible from the shoulder up, but the sight of him is enough to set Bucky’s heart flying in his chest.

Bucky’s first thought is that Steve looks like a handsome lobster, his skin flushed from too-hot water. His second thought is not really a thought so much as a series of clanking noises in his brain. His mouth goes fishlike.

Steve reaches out a hand for the clothes, taking them from Bucky with the slightest spark of mischief in his eye. Bucky thinks he might like to punch that smug look right off of him, maybe with his mouth, and then that’s a bad train of thought so he returns to the couch for the third time.

Steve comes out a minute later, padding softly back into the living room. The same blue shirt Bucky’d lent him that first day clings to his chest, and Bucky knows now there’s no way he can ever wear that thing again. The pale color is darker in a few spots where Steve didn’t dry off quite well enough. He collapses down onto the couch, this time much closer to Bucky.

“Thanks for the clothes, and the use of your bathroom,” he says. “Again.”

“No problem,” Bucky murmurs.

Steve’s not done yet, though. He turns on the cushion, pulling one leg up so he can face Bucky fully. “I feel like I should apologize for imposing on you all the time.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You don’t have to. You’re not. And besides,” he adds, “it was my fault the first time, so.”

Steve does smile then, finally. He props an elbow up on the back of the couch and rests his head in his head, fingers tangled in his own wet hair. Abruptly, his smile wilts. “Can I apologize for the other day then?”

Bucky’s heart leaps and lodges somewhere in his left nostril. He turns to face Steve, folding his legs in with his back pressed into the armrest. “If you need to,” he says.

Steve frowns at him, like that’s not the answer he wanted. He sits up straighter, folds his hands in his lap. “I am sorry,” he implores. He looks into Bucky’s eyes, and everything on his face says that it’s vitally important that Bucky understand this. “I wasn’t expecting Tony to be there. It … he caught me off guard. I’m sorry for the way I acted. That wasn’t right.”

Bucky swallows loud, trying to shove his heart back down into his chest. His lungs have flip-flopped now and he can’t breathe quite right. “It’s fine,” he manages. “It is what it is. How is Tony?” he asks, changing the subject. That tiny spark of hope will kill him if he lets it.

Steve raises his eyebrows, sinks deeper into the couch. “He’ll be okay,” he sighs. “Natasha, too. They’re both strong, and neither of them was seriously hurt, so …“

“Good.”

“When I went to see them, it’s awful but I kept thinking about how grateful I was that it wasn’t me,” he says, and that blazing look of his comes back as he learns towards Bucky. He reaches out a hand like he means to grasp Bucky’s knee, but he drops it onto the couch inches short. “How grateful I was that I survived, because I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d gotten hurt and you –“ He breaks off and sucks in a rattling breath.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no. “Oh no,” Bucky says. Steve does not need to talk about this. He does not need to hear about this. The spark bounces pinball-quick around his insides.

But Steve’s not done. He frowns at the couch cushion and says, “I’ve never – I don’t know how to keep things normal with someone … normal. I don’t know how to balance it.”

And there lies the problem, the reason Bucky can’t listen to this. Because Steve’s right, he doesn’t know how. And that is not something Bucky can deal with. “It’s fine,” Bucky repeats and then: “Are you hungry? Do you want some dinner?”

Steve looks up at him with those wounded eyes, but then he closes them and takes two deep breaths. He sits back. Bucky breathes with him, and it’s calming. When Steve opens his eyes again, he smiles and it looks real enough. “Dinner sounds great.”

“Great,” Bucky says, and gets up to go root around the kitchen.

 

They end up ordering takeout because Bucky has nothing in his cabinets fit to feed a super-soldier. It’s Italian, from the place down on the corner that Steve raves about, and they order about five different things between them. As it turns out, pasta is an excellent way to distract Steve from emotional conversations that Bucky would rather not have. He’s very attentive when it comes to noodles. The television’s on, something mind-numbing and unobtrusive.

After he clears his plate of the thing with pesto for the second time, Bucky drops his fork with a clatter and flops back onto the couch, arms splayed out.

“I’m admitting defeat,” he says. Steve laughs and grabs the whole box of pesto thing for himself.

A few minutes later and Steve has also been defeated by the mighty pesto dish, slayer of all men.

“You know what,” Steve says. Bucky does not know what and isn’t sure he can think about what. He’s moved his feet to the coffee table and is practically sitting on his back, regretting every choice he’s ever made after about second grade. Too many carbs will do that, apparently.

“I never noticed,” Steve plows on, “but you have big feet. Enormous, even.”

What. “Yes,” Bucky replies, “I grew them myself.”

Steve laughs, and then winces and clutches at his stomach like he’s unsettled it. Please do not get pasta on the floor, Steve. “Clarification’s necessary, I didn’t grow everything,” Bucky reminds him, holding up the left arm puppet-like.

“True,” Steve says. “You know what they say about big feet, though.”

He is really not in the business of making this easy on Bucky, is he? Fine, he’ll bite. “What do they say, Steve?”

“Big feet – big shoes.”

Bucky laughs so hard he falls sideways on the couch, the crown of his head brushing Steve’s thigh.

 

“I just don’t fuckin’ get it,” Steve says, waving his spoon around dramatically. Bucky pulled the leftover ice cream out of fridge about twenty minutes ago. They’re on a second wind post-pasta and this ice cream is going _down_. No bowls.

“Get what?” Bucky asks around a mouthful. Steve’s worked up all of a sudden, when a minute ago, they’d been laughing at some SNL rerun. He’s the only person Bucky has ever met whose every worry is not quelled by double dark chocolate.

“Who the fuck even does that? Blows up three blocks of a city like that?” he exclaims. “We can’t even figure out why they did it! What they were trying to achieve!”

Bucky sighs, shakes his head. “People are sick, Steve, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“It just doesn’t make any damn sense.”

“Not everyone’s as morally upstanding as you, pal,” Bucky says with a tilt of his head. Steve gives him a weird, wobbly look. Worried for the safety of Steve’s spoon, which looks like it might topple from his hand at any moment, Bucky reaches over and grabs it.

“For the record, I’m glad you’re okay,” he says as he scoops out a huge spoonful from the tub in his lap before sticking it directly in Steve’s mouth.

 

They’re sitting at the breakfast bar with coffee, and it’s very late. That same comfortable silence settles in around them for a while, and they both sip peacefully.

“I like that painting on your wall,” Steve says softly, pointing to the framed artwork above the couch. It’s about the only decoration he’s got. Bucky’s not much of homemaker for a guy who works in a furniture shop; a majority of his furniture are things that never sold. Charmingly eclectic, some might say. Haphazard and incongruous, others might argue.

“Oh, it’s just a print,” Bucky tells him. Becca might’ve given it to him, but it’s been there so long he can’t remember.

“Chagall’s great – his use of color knocks me out,” Steve continues. “That one looks like love to me. Floating through a blue sky together.” He waves a hand through the air dreamily, like he’s imagining it.

Bucky sputters a laugh. “Yeah, complete with an oversized chicken and a goat playing violin.”

Steve smacks him on the shoulder, but he’s laughing too. “Yeah, what would love be without a violin-playing goat?”

Bucky sobers and meets Steve’s eye. “Still pretty good, I’d say.”

He looks away, down, back to his coffee, before he can see how Steve reacts. The spark threatens to burn a hole right through him.

 

“Thank you for tonight,” Steve says outside of Bucky’s bedroom. He’d made a fuss about staying over, but it’s gone midnight now and Bucky’d rather he stay than try to make it all the way back to Manhattan at this hour. Not that Steve would be in any danger, but. Bucky would worry all the same, which is something he’d rather not have to think too hard about.

“Tonight was good,” Steve says. “Which, under the circumstances was … unexpected.”

Steve leans against the doorframe, all tired grace, and Bucky wonders what it would mean to follow him into that dark room. If he could do it. If he can even keep from doing it.

“Right,” he says. “Time for bed. Or couch-bed.” He jabs a thumb towards the living room, and Steve’s giving him that lingering look again so he stays longer than he knows he should. He reaches up to pull the elastic out of his hair, and it falls down in messy waves all over his face.

Obscured from vision, he hears Steve rumble a soft laugh. He grins and goes to push the hair out of his face, but Steve’s hands beat him to it. Gently, he tucks the loose strands behind Bucky’s ears, the warmest smile he’s had all night spread across his face. And who is Bucky to rob him of that smile, really? That smile is a national goddamn treasure.

Steve holds Bucky’s face between his hands, the lightest pressure across the planes of his cheeks. In the dim light of the hall, the heat of his eyes burns low. Slowly, slowly he leans in, plenty of time for Bucky to pull away.

He doesn’t.

Steve closes the last inch between them and just softly brushes his lips against Bucky’s, the most tender touch. The world narrows down to that light, warm pressure – none of the rest of it matters, just for a second. The spark of hope catches flame and burns him up right there by the doorframe.

Then Steve pulls away, dropping his hands to his side. His face is inscrutable.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” he whispers, and then he disappears into the dark of the bedroom.

Using every ounce of strength he’s got, Bucky turns and shuffles to the couch, thumbing absently at his mouth.

 

Bucky really tries to sleep, honest to god gives it the old college try. But it just won’t come.

His brain’s all a jumble. He even tries those breathing exercises and progressive muscle relaxation he learned from his therapist ages ago, but nothing works. He’s doomed, and it’s all to do with the man sleeping in the other room.

Because having Steve here makes him forget all the reasons he thought it couldn’t work. Or maybe not forget, but reconsider. Maybe they just didn’t try hard enough. Steve may have made some mistakes, kept him secret and kept himself a secret, but so did he, frankly. They’re both accountable for what happened. A voice at the back of his mind reminds him: People have the capacity for change. You have to give them that chance, though – plant the seed, nurture it, see if it grows. Seeds don’t grow in your pocket. People can’t change if you don’t give them the chance to.

Fuckin’ Sam and his sage words of wisdom, always coming back to bite him in the ass as soon as he thinks he’s made the right choice.

But he thinks maybe he’s willing to try again. That it’s worth it to try again.

_It seems like there are a lot of reasons why I shouldn’t. Yes, but there are a lot more reasons why you should._

He sits up abruptly, kicking the blanket off himself. Is Steve awake? He stands up. No, Steve’s probably asleep and it would be rude to wake him. He’s had a long day. Bucky sits back down on the edge of the couch, his leg jigging nervously up and down. Why had they thought it was a good idea to drink coffee right before bed? Steve and his stupid super metabolism were probably fine, conked out in his bed like a rock.

Steve in his bed. God.

The floorboards creak. Bucky freezes, squinting into the dark of the hallway to try and spot –

Lavender pounces on his foot, biting at his ankle.

“Oh, Jesus, Lav! Go away!” He shakes her off and she skitters away down the hall, feet thumping. What even are cats. Bucky sighs and lays back down, resigned to wait until morning. It’s probably best not to make any rash, middle-of-the-night decisions anyway.

The floorboards creak again. Bucky grabs a throw pillow and chucks it in the general direction of the hall. “Fuck off,” he says.

“Oh,” comes a quiet reply. “Sorry, okay.”

Bucky rockets up to seated so fast his head spins. “Steve? Shit, no, come back, I thought you were the cat!” He switches the lamp on and sees Steve standing in the shadows of the hall, arms tucked around his middle. “Come here,” Bucky says, holding out his hand.

Steve smiles, soft and warm, and crosses the room. He settles onto the couch, slotting his hand together with Bucky’s. In the light of the lamp, and the moon filtering through the thin curtains, Bucky is struck suddenly by how beautiful Steve is. The gold of his hair, the flush in his cheeks, the cut of his jaw and the square set of his shoulders, all the way down to his toes – Bucky’s never seen anything like him.

And Steve is his, if he wants him.

“Wow,” he breathes.

Steve looks like he might crack open. “What?”

He does. He does want him.

“You.”

And then he pulls Steve to him with their intertwined hands, and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://s44.photobucket.com/user/Hannah_Purdy/media/chagall_zpssqpwq23t.jpg.html)  
> _Les mariés de la Tour Eiffel_ (Marc Chaggal, 1938)
> 
> I don't know much about painting, so this is the same print William has in the movie. But! I do think Steve would genuinely like Chagall. As always, thanks so much to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, or comments (and extra special thanks if you do all three)! Find me saying ridiculous things on tumblr [here](bvckyisms.tumblr.com). I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	10. Chapter 10

It’s hot. Bucky drifts up toward consciousness and thinks _, It’s hot._ It’s nearly December, how can it be so hot in his room? He might actually be sweating.

When he comes to fully, it dawns on him why he’s sweltering. Tucked in against his back, against every contour of his back body, is Steve. His arms wind vicelike around Bucky’s midsection, the heat of him all-encompassing. It’s a nice thing to wake up to – nice is a wild understatement, it’s fantastic. But he thinks he might suffocate or die of heatstroke if he doesn’t untangle himself, much as that might be a good way to go. _Local man snuggled to death by Captain America._

Gingerly, slowly, he unsticks himself from Steve’s front and twists around in his arms to face him. Steve barely twitches, his breath hitching before evening out again. Faint light filters in through the open doorway, and in its glow he can see the sweep of Steve’s eyelashes against his cheek, the soft pout of his full lips. Bucky reaches up a hand to trace light fingertips across Steve’s face, across his brow and down over the aquiline nose, his thumb brushing across the velvet of his mouth. _God,_ that mouth. That mouth that can command an army, can move a nation, can unravel even the tightest knot in Bucky’s heart and his body too, now. He’ll never be able to look at it the same way again.

Steve sucks in an easy, deep breath. His muscles go tense and then elongate, stretching around Bucky’s body and then drawing him in closer on the bed. Bucky ends up with his nose pressed into Steve’s collarbone, arms smushed between their bare chests. This was not the plan.

But then he hears snuffling, and then Steve’s lips press firm against the top of his head. “Hi,” he murmurs blearily and loosens his arms. Bucky pulls back, only enough to look him in the face again. Steve’s eyelids hang heavy, sleep groggy and blissed out. A lazy smile blooms across his face, lopsided and affectionate. Bucky’s heart flutters an inconsistent rhythm in his chest, elated, electric. He returns the smile.

“Hi,” he says.

“Why are you awake?”

“You were kind of crushing me.”

“Oh shit, sorry.” His arms are gone then, pulling them back against his sides.

“No, get back here,” Bucky huffs indignantly. He wriggles closer to Steve and pushes at his shoulder till he flops on his back with a quiet laugh. Bucky snuggles up to his side and rests his head on Steve’s chest, looping one arm over his middle and throwing a leg across his thighs, pulling him in tight. “There, better.”

Steve’s arm winds around him, scratching lazy circles over the bare expanse of his back. He arches into it like a cat. They settle that way for a moment, and Bucky’s not sure if they’re going back to sleep or working up to another round. It’s still the middle of the night, the clock on his nightstand tells him. There’s time, they have time, but right now this is enough.

“Hi,” Bucky says again, breath whiffing against Steve’s skin.

“Hi.” He can feel it when Steve says the word, the rumble of air as it passes up through his sternum.

It bursts out of him unexpectedly, a giggle fit for a school girl, and he turns his reddening face to hide in Steve’s shoulder as he murmurs _hi_ for the third time.

“That all you can say?” Steve asks, and Bucky can hear the smile in his voice. He lifts his head to see it, sees it there – pink of his mouth stretched wide over white teeth.

Bucky grins right back. “Hi.”

This time Steve dissolves into a fit of giggles, the bed frame trembling with the force of it. Bucky thinks it’s about the cutest thing he’s ever seen. “Eloquent,” he manages after he gets his breath back.

“Too happy to string two words together.”

“What was that, seven?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Steve quiets, looking at him. “I do, yeah.” Bucky ducks his head, face coloring, but Steve uses his free hand to tip his chin back up. His eyes are open, earnest, when he says, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For giving me another chance.” Steve sounds choked with it, a dam about to burst.

Bucky feels like he might just overflow, too. “Everybody deserves a second chance,” he says, and it’s true. No one gets it right the first time around, not really. Steve stares into him, eyes the color of the Atlantic in sunlight and just as full, and Bucky grows warm with wanting him.

Using his leg as leverage, he slides up to straddle Steve properly, hovering just inches above his chest. Steve meets his gaze, the both of them blown wide open, and brushes Bucky’s hair back out of his face before dragging him down into a kiss. It’s searing in the dark of the room, and their bodies lock together like they’ve done this a thousand times over. Everywhere their bodies meet, there’s heat, it’s scalding. Like sinking into a hot bath when your muscles are sore. Like coming inside after the frigid air’s whipped you around for too long. It feels good, lights up his heart in a way that’s almost painful.

Steve stirs against him where they’re slotted against each other. Bucky breaks the kiss and, with an impish wink, sinks down to cover Steve’s chest in light little kisses, teasing as he inches lower. Knotting a hand his hair, fingernails rasping against his scalp, Steve gently coaxes his mouth lower.

Just then, a gray mass of fur springs onto the bed with an almighty yowl. Lavender tramples her way onto the pillow above Steve’s head and starts biting at his hair.

“Oh my god!” Steve exclaims, reaching up to tear her away from his scalp. She doesn’t go easily, and Bucky collapses against Steve’s abdomen, shaking with laughter. “Oh, you think this is funny?” Steve asks, before dumping Lav unceremoniously onto Bucky’s own head.

“What the hell, Steve!” he exclaims, but Lavender decides she’s had enough human hair for one night. She crawls down Bucky’s back and settles onto the base of his spine, a tight little ball.

“Do you think my cat knows she’s being a cockblock?” Bucky asks Steve, lifting his head from where it rests against the taunt skin of his stomach. He cranes his neck around to look at her, comfortably nestled right above his ass. “Don’t you want me to have any fun?” he asks her. She does not respond, because she is a cat. If she could, the answer would probably be _no_.

Bucky heaves a sigh and flops back down against Steve, cheek over navel. “There, there,” Steve coos and reaches out a hand to comb through Bucky’s hair. “It’s a tough life, but we’ll muddle through together.”

Bucky presses half a kiss into Steve’s stomach and resigns himself to being a cat bed for at least the next ten minutes. Hell, he could probably sleep like this, slotted between Steve’s legs. His abs are too hard to make a particularly comfortable place to rest, but there are worse problems. Steve strokes at his hair, tucking his legs in closer around Bucky’s body, and Bucky closes his eyes.

And then opens them. “I’m hungry again. Are you hungry again?”

He feels it when Steve laughs at him, gentle tremors down through his middle. “I thought I was the one with the super-metabolism?”

“First of all, fuck you. Second of all, that’s why I’m hungry.”

“What?”

“I worked up an appetite. You’re kind of relentless.”

Now Steve really laughs, down in his gut, and it shakes Bucky’s whole body. Lavender stirs irritably. “Sorry, I’ll go easier on you next time,” Steve says.

Bucky shakes his head, snaking one hand up to pinch at Steve’s nipple. He shudders under him and grabs at Bucky’s hand, tangling their fingers together off to the side in a disappointingly innocent fashion. “’M’not saying I minded,” Bucky mutters into Steve’s skin, “just that I’m hungry.”

“What do you want? Leftovers?” Steve asks. “If there’s a twenty-four hour store, I can run out and get you something.”

Bucky squeezes his hand, touched and slightly overwhelmed that pinned beneath him is a man that would go out at half past three in the morning just to get him a post-sex snack. “I’ll just get some pasta, we ordered a mountain,” he says. “But we gotta wait till the queen back here decides she’s done using my ass as a pillow.” He uses his free hand to gesture vaguely behind him.

“Can’t say I blame her, it’s pretty cushy,” Steve says, and Bucky swats at his face blindly with his free hand. “I’d take a nap there,” Steve says. He grabs Bucky’s flailing hand and presses kisses to his fingertips. “Though,” he adds, voice dropping low into his chest, “with my face that close to you, I don’t think I’d actually be able to do much sleeping.”

And if that doesn’t shoot right down to settle between Bucky’s legs, sudden heat like a match struck underneath him. “Right then,” he proclaims, untangling his fingers from Steve’s. He pushes up onto his knees and Lavender topples off his back with an undignified mewl. She scampers off the bed and out into the hall, clearly offended, but Bucky could not possibly care less about her feelings right now with Steve looking up at him like that.

He scoots forward and settles his weight over Steve’s naked torso, long parallels of their bodies pressing into each other. “You like my ass, do you?” he growls.

“I think we’ve established that already,” Steve purrs back at him, reaching around to grab at the body part in question. Bucky’s just lowering himself down for a kiss when suddenly Steve’s hands are pressing into his chest, pushing him back, off.

“Steve, wha—“ he starts, but Steve clamps a hand over his mouth. He rolls them over so Bucky’s pinned underneath him on the bed, wide-eyed, wild-eyed. If this is some kind of game, he might play along, but Steve needs to tell –

He gets one look at Steve’s expression, descended into stony calculation, and realizes that it is not a game. Whatever this is, it’s real.

Steve releases his hand from Bucky’s mouth, but he presses one finger to his lips with a look that says _Don’t make a sound._ He taps at his own ear, _Listen,_ before slowly, so slowly rising from the bed. Bucky listens. He can’t hear a thing besides the air from the heat vent pouring into the room.

Steve dresses in deft, silent movements and then tosses Bucky’s clothes at him from the floor. Bucky slips them on as quickly and quietly as he can.

The floorboards creak.

Steve glances over to him with wide eyes, brief panic, before he sinks back down into that military mindset, stoicism – calm. He mouths at Bucky, _Stay here_ , and then disappears into the hall.

But Bucky’s a combat veteran, goddammit, and Steve’s got to be deranged if he thinks Bucky will sit quietly in his room while Steve goes to check for monsters under the bed. He’s no child. He can handle himself.

He follows him out into the hall.

Steve’s down at the back end, by the door that leads out to the shop. He’s plastered against the wood, tense and listening. Bucky inches down the hall towards him silently, and when Steve catches sight of him he looks like he might combust then and there. He waves a hand angrily at Bucky, motioning him to go back to his room, but Bucky just tightens his jaw and moves to stand right next to him. Steve exhales very quietly, air whirring out of a high pressure container.

Bucky presses an ear against the door to listen, too. He hears rustling, clattering, something breaking downstairs in the shop – and he reels back from the door, giving Steve a wild look. Someone’s robbing them! Who even steals antiques!

“I’m going down,” he whispers roughly, and when Steve tries to grab at his shoulder, he shakes him off. The door opens with some coaxing and then he’s creeping across the landing, down the steep stairs. Steve follows down after him, close at heel and light as air.

The noises grow louder as they reach the bottom of the staircase. Without a doubt, there is someone in the store. Two someones, if Bucky’s listening correctly, towards the front but making their way back slowly in the dark.

They have alarms on the place. These guys must be serious, if they disabled them before they even went off.

At the bottom of the stairs, Steve shoulders past Bucky to move in front of him which – okay, neither of them are armed. Steve’s brute strength alone tips the scales in his favor if they go hand to hand. But who’s to say these guys don’t have weapons? What then? Eyes narrowing, Bucky slinks after Steve into the shop.

They stalk up the long aisle between dressers and bookshelves, armoires and tables and old trinkets. In the subtle shine of the streetlights through the front window, Bucky can just make out two dark figures skulking around near the first editions.

Steve glances back at him and then drops into a crouch, motioning Bucky to do the same. His drops his hips back, center of gravity low, careful balance. They’re working on the element of surprise here, hoping to get the jump on the two intruders.

It doesn’t work, though. The building’s old, and Bucky knows about the loose floorboard halfway up the aisle but he’s too focused to remember it and then Steve’s stepping on it and –

“He’s in here!” shouts a voice. The two dark figures spring to life, running into the aisle where the light casts them in stark relief. Steve charges forward, and Bucky tears after him.

It’s over very quickly. A matter of seconds, altogether.

In these close quarters, Steve manages to wrestle the weapon out of the first one’s hands, the baton crackling bright white in the dark. Steve snaps his wrist back and the baton skitters away, under a desk.

Bucky launches himself at the second thief, who’s charging at Steve with his own baton raised. The guy’s distracted so Bucky lands a hard blow in his midsection, below the ribs. The man shudders on the impact and drops his weapon in surprise – amateur – and Bucky kicks it away. He recovers from his fumble quickly though, slamming Bucky back against a china cabinet. The glass shatters under the impact, Bucky toppling backwards halfway into the thing, but then Steve’s there and he’s grabbing the guy from behind, pinning his arms. Bucky lunges forward and clocks the guy over the side of the head with a heavy picture frame, and he sags back against Steve’s body, unconscious.

Steve drops him almost immediately, roughly, like the guy is a livewire. Bucky darts over to the wall and flicks on the lights, returning to Steve’s side to stare at the two unconscious people in his parents’ antique store.

It’s only with the light on that Bucky sees the uniforms.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve murmurs. He drags his hands across his face, agonized.

They weren’t here to rob anything. They’re Hydra. Jesus Christ.

Steve spins to face him, and Bucky flinches hard when Steve grabs him by the shoulders. He lowers his hands immediately, grabbing at the hem of his shirt – Bucky’s shirt – like he needs to hold onto something. “Are you okay?” he croaks.

Bucky thinks about it for a minute. Something clatters against the floor, hits his foot – the picture frame, he dropped it. His heart beats loud in his chest, blood circulating with so much force he can feel it in his toenails. There’s a dull ache in his back from the impact against the cabinet, and he knows it’s going to bruise. But after a long beat, his breath starts to settle. The pounding beneath his sternum starts to calm to a rhythm that sounds less like a war drum. It’s okay, he’s okay – he’s been here before.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Bucky says. “Been a while. What about you?”

Steve gives him an incredulous look. “Am I – I’m fine, Buck.”

Bucky shuffles forward, intent on pressing himself against every part of Steve because he’s suddenly very cold and Steve is always very warm. But Steve backs away, bumping up against a dresser with his hands held up before him like he doesn’t want to be touched.

With his mouth all screwed up like that and the pinch between his eyebrows, he looks almost disgusted.

Bucky frowns.


	11. Chapter 11

Nearly two hours later, they are finally, finally alone, and Bucky’s frown has progressed into a scowl.

After checking that the Hydra operatives were still unconscious, Steve used the store’s phone to make a call and not ten minutes later, the whole place was flooded with SHIELD agents. Flooded may be an overstatement – there were really only five or so of them, but they swept through the store and around them like the swift current of a river.

First the intruders were properly apprehended, handcuffed and dumped at the front of the store. One agent stood watch while two more combed over the whole store, top to bottom, every nook and cranny. Looking for bugs, bombs, anything.

Perched on the edge of a rickety wooden chair, Bucky gave a stiff report of what happened to yet another agent. This, at least, felt familiar – debrief, mission report, tell us what happened and how it happened down to the last detail. It felt like pulling teeth, dragging them out of his skull with no painkillers when all he wanted was to be unconscious – but it felt familiar.

Steve got debriefed, too, and then someone checked them over for injuries, which seems backwards to Bucky even now. Tell us what happened and how it happened, then we’ll verify you’re not bleeding internally. Says a lot about SHIELD’s priorities.

After the questioning was done, Bucky hunkered down in the chair and watched the agents inspect the shop. Some part of it felt like a violation, prying into private places, sticking their hands all over his family – even though he knows. It’s a store, people come in here all the time. This furniture is meant to be touched, meant to be looked at and sold and put into someone else’s home.

It might be lingering uneasiness from the break-in. It’s easier to blame the agents, because they’re easier to think about. He very mindfully does not look towards the front of the store.

Finally, finally: it’s nearing dawn when one of the agents hands him a damage report. It lists in generic, unsentimental detail each item in the store that has been damaged in any way. Bucky almost laughs at its length – half of it was probably already like that. He and his father do their best, but some of these pieces are a hundred years old, have lived a thousand lives. Most of it isn’t in pristine condition. That’s the whole point.

He makes a list in his own head. One china cabinet, broken glass and splintered shelf. One picture frame, dented. The front door, hanging off its hinge. The alarm system, fried. His back, bruised.

His relationship, damage unknown.

Steve hasn’t looked at him since the agents arrived. He doesn’t know what he told them, when he answered the questions. _What were you doing before the invasion? What was Captain Rogers doing in your residence?_

Bucky told it true, because he’d decided on no more bullshit between them. No more hiding. _I was in bed with my boyfriend. Captain Rogers – Steve – is my boyfriend. Was. Is._

The agent, to her credit, didn’t bat an eyelash as she took down his statement on her tablet.

He doesn’t know what Steve said, and asking seems almost irrelevant, now. He’s got other things to deal with. He has to clean up the shop, repair what damage he can before his parents arrive. Come up with some sort of explanation for it. He can hear his mother now: _Who robs an antique store?_

The agents leave, bustling the pair of Hydra goons out with them and into a dark-colored van parked across the street.

And then they are alone. It feels worse, somehow. Bucky thinks about stab wounds, about how you’re not supposed to pull the knife out because it makes it worse.

He doesn’t look at Steve, doesn’t know where he is, if he’s even still here. He gets up from the chair, and his foot’s gone numb from sitting so long. In the office he finds a broom, grabs it, carries it back out to where the glass glints on the hardwood floor. The floorboards creak under his feet.

“Let me do that,” Steve says, and Bucky jumps halfway out of his skin.

He looks at Steve, standing in front of him with one arm stretched out to take the broom. His face is entirely devoid of expression, eyes blank. Bucky keeps sweeping. “I have it.”

“You’ll cut your feet,” Steve protests, pointing down at Bucky’s bare feet.

Bucky huffs a sigh, jabbing a finger at Steve’s own exposed toes. “And what are you, impervious?”

“No, but I’ll heal faster.”

“Get your own damn broom.”

“Bucky.”

“Steve.”

There’s a sharp slap, a rattle – Bucky looks up to see Steve with his hand pressed firmly against the top of a dresser, which trembles. Bucky wonders if he hit it hard enough to leave an indent of his hand in the top. They could probably sell it for more money if he did. _Dresser circa 1930s, ft. genuine impression of Captain America’s hand._

He looks up at Steve’s face, and it’s shifted from level to livid. Bucky’s never seen him look like that, all heavy brow and sharp jut of his chin. “Give me the damn broom, Bucky.” Voice like gravel.

Bucky gives him the damn broom. Steve sweeps the glass shards into a neat pile, and Bucky goes to get him a dust pan.

When he comes back out of the office, Steve has disappeared again. He looks up and down the crowded aisles and finds him tucked into the leather wingback, face buried in his hands.

Bucky doesn’t know what’s going on between them, what sort of fracture this caused or why, but he knows he can’t leave Steve looking like that. Like the whole world’s sitting square between his shoulder blades. Like Atlas.

He moves closer, reaching out to rest a steady hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” Steve breathes out from between the cage of his hands.

Bucky crouches down beside him, gently pries a hand from Steve’s face and holds it between both of his own. He rubs firm circles into the palm, working out the tension he finds there. “It’s not your fault,” he says.

And that must be the wrong thing. Steve rockets up from his seat, sidesteps out of Bucky’s reach. He’s halfway down the aisle before Bucky starts following him. “It’s not your fault!” he calls to him, louder, more forceful.

Steve stops on a dime, spins around to face him and – laughs. It’s humorless, dark, bubbling up from his throat like thick tar. “Of course it’s my fault, Bucky, Jesus _Christ_ – they were Hydra. Unless you and your parents have some associations you’re not telling me about, they were here because of me.”

He sounds sick with it, like it’s rotting him away. Understanding settles like bricks in Bucky’s stomach.

“I’m fine,” he says. It’s the only words that will come out. He doesn’t know what to say to fix this. If Steve’s going to throw himself under the bus he’s not sure he’s strong enough to stop him. But he can try. “We’re both fine.”

“Physically, you’re fine. Emotionally, are you fine? Can you tell me you’re fine after that?” Steve spits at him. “That glass on the floor, is that fine? Your broken door? All fine?” His voice rises with each question till he’s practically yelling, words like thrown knives, flying out of his mouth. That mouth.

“First of all,” Bucky starts, and he can feel himself rising to meet Steve’s anger. It’s a Barnes family trait – the only one who can hold himself steady in the face of flames is his father. Not a Barnes trait then, his mother’s side. “First of all, I can take care of myself, emotionally and physically, Steve. In case you hadn’t realized, this wasn’t exactly my first rodeo. Second, I already replaced the glass once, I can do it again, and that door’s no sweat. I can fix it right fuckin’ now if you wanna watch me do it.”

Steve closes his eyes for a long beat, and he tries to breathe through his nose but his breath still rattles of his mouth, hot like dragon fire. His eyes snap open, and the blue’s red-rimmed. “That’s my point. You got yourself out, you’re supposed to be done – and because of me you got dragged back into a fight.”

“Jesus, Steve, it was one little skirmish! You’re acting like a whole fuckin’ platoon stormed the place!”

“It could be, next time!”

“What are you talking about, next time?”

“I’m talking about _next time_.” They’ve been slowly advancing on each other, and now they’re just inches shy of nose-to-nose. Bucky can taste Steve’s breath on the air, coffee and ice cream and something all his own. “Or do you think this was an isolated incident?” His voice has dropped quieter with the proximity, but the lack of volume only heightens the intensity.

“You don’t seem to think so,” Bucky returns, acerbic.

“No, I don’t. Because for better or worse, I’m Captain goddamn America, and there are thousands of people in this world who want me dead because of it.” He pauses, draws in a long breath, and as he exhales he takes a step back. The next thing he says, it’s so even you’d hardly know he was spitting mad a minute earlier. Calm, resigned, certain. “And I can see now that it’s wrong of me to put you in that line of fire.”

It takes Bucky half a second, and then it’s like someone cranked the dial all the way to the right. “ _What?_ ”

“I won’t endanger you like that anymore.”

“What the fuck does that mean, Steve?”

“It means we can’t be together. It means I have to go.”

The nob’s broken, hanging halfway off, and there’s nothing to turn his anger back down. “You think you’re so damn noble! Jesus Christ! Don’t I have a say in this? Any choice at all?”

“I can’t let you –“

Bucky cuts across him. “Did I not just prove to you that I can handle myself? Does an honorable discharge mean jackshit to you?”

“Like I said, you shouldn’t have to – you got out, I’m still in, I can’t drag you back down into that with me –“

“That’s bullshit, Steve,” he spits, because it is. It’s noble, self-righteous bullshit. It’s exactly the kind of stunt you’d expect from Captain America, and Bucky’s almost as mad at himself for not seeing that’s what it was the minute Steve first backed away from him after the fight. “That’s a load of bullshit, and you know it.”

Steve just folds his arms across his chest, stalwart and stubborn.

“So what was last night then?” Bucky asks. The bricks in his gut settle lower. “Does that mean nothing?”

The way Steve looks, Bucky may as well have punched him. “No – god, Bucky, no. How could you think that? Last night was … everything. That meant everything. You – everything.”

“So then what? If last night meant everything, then what does this mean?”

“I can’t – people will use you to get to me. I can’t let that happen.”

Bucky sucks in a ragged breath, there’s no air in here, where’d all the air go? “Can I say anything to make you stay?”

“I’m not changing my mind on this,” Steve says, because of course he does. Of course he isn’t. Steve Rogers is a brick wall paved over with concrete and coated in a thick layer of steel when he’s made up his mind. There’s no moving him, no breaking him down. If you try, you’ll only end up hurting yourself.

“Fine,” Bucky rasps. He covers his eyes with one hand so he doesn’t have to look at him anymore. Ice water seeps into his bones, tempering his rage and turning him halfway to stone all in one. “Just go then. Get the hell out of here if you’re so set on it.”

“Bucky,” Steve says. It’s quiet, like a plea, like a prayer whispered in the very back row of church. They say God hears every prayer, no matter how quiet or small – but Bucky Barnes sure isn’t God, and he doesn’t have the patience or the power to listen to any of Steve’s eleventh hour remorse, if that’s what this is.

“Just go,” he repeats, and turns away completely.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Bucky hears footsteps, the sound of the door as Steve tries to open and close it without knocking it completely off the hinge.

Bucky spins around, dropping his hand from his face, but he’s already gone. Early morning sunlight overexposes the street outside, filters in through the storefront windows. He left barefoot.

Bucky’s whole body feels numb with cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I promise they'll eventually catch a break! Remember how this is based on a romantic comedy!


	12. Chapter 12

Late fall fades into winter fades into spring. Brooklyn starts to warm up again. Bucky starts to feel alive again, at least a little.

Rebecca and Rami invite the whole family over for dinner on a windy evening in May.

“So, we have some news,” Rebecca begins over the main course. She kicks Bucky under the table to get his attention. He jerks up, dropping his fork and looking around furtively.

“What? What?”

“They have _news_!” Bucky’s mother exclaims, clapping her hands together like she already knows the big reveal. Bucky frowns at her, then Rebecca, then his father who just shrugs at him. He looks back to Rebecca, and glances at her glass – water.

Rami reaches across the table to take Rebecca’s hand. “I’m pregnant,” she says.

In place of any words, their mom emits a very loud, very high-pitched noise. She abandons her seat and almost trips going around the table to hug Rebecca from behind.

A little while later, Bucky’s in the kitchen with the dishes when Rebecca wanders in.

“Hey, Buck,” she says. “How are you?”

“How am I? How are _you_?” he deflects, pointing a dripping spatula at her stomach. “Both of you.”

She laughs, bright like bells, and rests a hand over her belly. With a proper look now, Bucky can see that she’s showing just a little. “We’re good. We’re really good so far.”

“Congratulations, really,” he says to her.

“Thank you.” Her brow pinches together. Bucky dries his hands off and turns to give her his full attention. “I’m still scared, after last time.”

“Oh, Becks, don’t think like that,” he says, opening his arms. She falls into them and he holds her tight, brushes at her hair. “You’ll be okay. Both of you.”

“I hope so,” she murmurs. Then she pulls back and looks him in the eye, sudden grin wide across her face. “You! You’re going to be an uncle!”

“Oh, holy shit,” Bucky breathes, dropping his arms. He stares at the wall across the room. “You’re right.”

“No cursing like that around my kid,” Becca says and wags her finger at him.

He doesn’t mean to laugh, swear he doesn’t but – he laughs, right in her face. “Yeah, okay, like you’ve got such a fuckin’ clean mouth, little sis.”

“Fuck you, Bucky, I’m a goddamn class act!” she spits back, and then they’re both wheezing, holding onto the counter for support. They get it together after a minute.

“How are you?” she asks, in that tone that means she wants a real answer.

Bucky sighs, and it hurts less than it did a month ago. Thanks to Sam, he’d had to tell Rebecca what had happened – and thanks to Rebecca, he’d had to tell his mother. The first one hadn’t been so bad, but his mom almost fired him on the spot for keeping the whole thing a secret from her. So much for nepotism.

“I’m doing okay,” he says, and he means it. Not great but – okay. Okay is better than where he was three months ago. Okay is workable.

She still quirks a skeptical eyebrow at him. “I have some other news for you,” she says like she’s about to reveal the secrets of the universe.

“What?”

“I heard he moved back to Brooklyn.”

What. “What?”

She gives him a wry smile, her mouth twisting up into something that is trying very hard not to be pity. His veins turn to ice. “How do you know that?” he asks sharply. The second question hangs unsaid in the air: _Why are you telling me this?_

“Little birdie told me,” she says, shrugging.

“Rebecca, how do you know that?” he repeats. He stares at her, hard, his jaw clenched to the point of pain. He knows he’s showing his cards too much, but he can’t help it.

“Sam told me,” she confesses.

Oh, what the fuck.

He spins on his heel and escapes to the bathroom, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. He’s got a few choice expletives with a question mark tacked on typed out and sent to Sam before he even has the door shut.

Sam replies quickly but dodges his line of questioning. They jab back and forth a few times until Bucky cuts right to it and sends, _Are you friends with Steve?_

The next reply comes slower: _Yeah man I am. I’m sorry._

Bucky doesn’t really read the rest of it, something about Steve volunteering at the VA and Sam deciding it was best not to tell him. He thumps his head back against the door, and then does it again for good measure. Why does he still _care_? Why does it still matter?

Bucky knows he can’t really be mad at Sam, but good god does he want to be. He doesn’t yell at him, though. He doesn’t text him back, but he refrains from yelling.

He splashes cold water on his face over the sink and stares into the mirror for too long. God, he looks like shit. Has he looked this shit for the past four months? Five months. However long it’s been. His hair’s a mess and his skin looks dull and his eyes are just. Hollowed out. He looks half-dead. Jesus Christ, how pitiful.

In, count to ten. Out, slow. He breathes like that a few more times, then exits the bathroom.

“Bucky, dear, come sit down,” his mother calls when he reappears. He goes to her and flops down on the couch rather spectacularly.

Rebecca gives him a look, questioning, as if she has any right. Which maybe she does. It’s been months, it’s reasonable for her to expect him to be fine by now. Normal people don’t mope this long over a guy who was barely their boyfriend.

“Alright,” he says, sitting up. Everyone turns to look at him. “I have an announcement too.”

“Let’s hear it,” his dad says, pleasantly expectant. He’s the only one who’s been normal about this whole thing. He had been a little shocked, when Bucky first told him the full saga, but then he just patted him on the shoulder. Said, _I’m sorry it didn’t work out._

“Sorry I’ve been such a piece of shit these past few months. As you all know I’ve been …” He trails off, looking for the right words. “Shitty.”

“Bucky,” his mother admonishes, swatting at his shoulder.

“There are dead people on better form,” Rami chimes, helpful as always. Bucky resists the urge to glare at him.

“Yeah, yeah, but I’m turning a corner. Now everybody can stop walking on eggshells around me, _please_.”

His family only looks dubious for about two seconds before they collectively school their expressions into encouraging smiles.

* * *

In the morning, Rebecca sends him an address. He asks what it is even though he thinks he knows, and then his phone lights up with a call.

“What the hell is that?” he grumbles after hitting the answer button.

“It’s his address,” she says.

“Why did you send me that? What are you doing?” He rubs at his forehead with the back of a hand, traces a headache twinging in his skull.

“You know why.”

He heaves a sigh and hauls himself up into a sitting position on the bed. “No, Rebecca, I don’t, and ambiguity really doesn’t become you so why don’t you cut to the point.”

She sighs back at him, “I know he hurt you.”

He winces, swallows heavily, and sinks back against the headboard. “Yeah, he did.”

“I know, and as far as I’m concerned that means he can fuck right the hell off.” A snort of a laugh escapes him, but Rebecca cuts across him. “But.”

“But?”

“But you’re not getting over him for whatever reason. Whatever you’re doing, it’s not working.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, because it’s true. He can deal with the radio silence; he can deal with a lot of things. But seeing Steve’s name or his face in the papers every other week is like a sucker punch. He tries to avoid it, but newsstands are everywhere. It makes forgetting difficult, and then he’s left thinking that maybe doesn’t want to forget which is a rabbit hole all on its own. “Got a new tactic for me?” he asks, half-joking and half-hoping that she does.

“If you’re not going to let him go, maybe you need to see if he’s worth letting back in.”

He’s silent for a long minute, just breathing. The pain behind his temple pulses hotter. “Becca, I – I can’t.”

“I know you’re scared. I know you got really hurt last time. But if it’s something you still want, if it’s something that’s worth having, don’t you think you owe it to yourself to see what can be done about that?”

“I guess you’d know a little about that, huh,” he says, picturing the little swell of her belly.

“I would, yeah,” she rasps back. “And listen, I don’t – I’m not trying to push you into anything. But it’s been months. Maybe he’s gotten his head out of his ass.”

He barks a laugh, sharp and short. “Yeah, maybe. Do you think he deserves another chance?”

“That’s not for me to say, Buck.” She pauses, and he waits because he knows her. “Honestly, as your sister? No, I don’t. But people make mistakes, and at least most of his were well-intentioned. And I think you deserve one. Don’t short yourself just because you’re scared of it.”

“I’ll,” he starts, breaks off, and tries again. “I’ll think about it.”

“I just want you to be happy, you know that, right? We all do. You lit up around him like I’d never seen before.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“Don’t take him back if he doesn’t kiss your fucking feet, though,” she snarls, cutting the tension. “I’m serious. And if he hurts you again, I’ll murder him and blame the hormones. He might be a superhero and I know you can take care of yourself, but hell hath no fury like a pregnant lady.”

This time when he laughs, it feels real and warm and good. He wishes Rebecca were here so he could wrap her up in a hug, but he settles for tugging a pillow into his chest. “Thanks, sis. Really. I love you.”

“Any time, big brother. Love you too.”

Bucky hangs up and rolls off the bed, heading into the bathroom to start up a too-hot shower. Before he gets in, he holds his phone and stares at the message with Steve’s address.

Impulsively, he deletes it, but he’d stared at it long enough that it’s stuck in his brain anyway.

 

That night he goes to get take out because he forgot to go to the grocery store again. All that’s left in the cabinets is cat food and canned vegetables.

He calls the Italian place on the corner because pesto always puts him in a good mood. Bucky’s spent most of the day contemplating the nature of forgiveness, and it’s put him in a stupor. Twenty minutes later, he walks down to the shop to pick up his order. When he walks into the tiny front space, he almost runs into –

Well holy shit, it’s Captain America. And Iron Man.

He wonders if there’s a way for him to get back out the door without the bell ringing, but then Steve’s turning around with several boxes in hand. He sees him, of course, because there’s no one else in here and nothing to hide behind. Bucky knows because he looked.

Steve’s breath catches in his throat, and he freezes in place. “Bucky,” he says.

“Bucky?” Stark repeats, spinning around. “Oh – Barnes! Long time, no see.” He – winks at Bucky? What? Then he shoves an elbow into Steve’s side, who unfreezes and shakes himself.

“Mr. Stark,” Bucky says, nodding at him. “Steve.”

Steve still looks halfway a statue. “Right, I’ll be outside, Steve,” Stark says. He clasps a hand on Bucky’s shoulder as he eases past him for the door, gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“This is, um,” Steve says. His eyes are so, so blue. “How are you?”

“I only found out you were in Brooklyn yesterday,” Bucky says. He considers letting him off the hook but, no. “Through Rebecca, who heard through Sam.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Steve says, his face going red. “I’m – I thought about calling, but I wasn’t sure if…”

Bucky fills in the blanks. “Yeah,” he croaks.

Steve bites his lip and looks at the ground. “Can I –“ he starts, and then looks back up at Bucky. “Would it be all right if I did? If I called you?”

Bucky breathes slow once, twice, three times – half to let Steve sweat it out and half because he’s genuinely unsure how he wants to answer. His conversation with Rebecca seems like weeks ago already.

“You can say no, and I would understand,” Steve says. “But there are some things I’m ready to say to you, if you want to listen. Just not…” He trails off and gestures around the packed dining area. Not here.

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky sighs and smiles a little, just the very corners of his mouth.

Steve smiles back tentatively. “Okay,” he says. Then he looks down at the food in his hands like he’d forgotten it was there, then out to the street where Stark’s waiting on him. “I should –“

“Yeah,” Bucky interrupts. He steps aside to let Steve pass. As he does, Bucky swears he can feel the heat from him. But maybe it’s just warm in this claustrophobic Italian restaurant.  

“Oh,” Steve says, and Bucky pivots to see him halfway out the door. He raises an eyebrow.

“Tony knows,” Steve tells him, inclining his head towards Stark outside. “I told him about us. I told everyone.”

Bucky nods once, biting the inside of his cheek, and turns back to the counter to pick up his order. The little spark of hope flickers back into existence, unbidden but not unwelcome.


	13. Chapter 13

Bucky goes to bed with his phone perched on the nightstand, rectangular and taunting in the faint light from the street. It’s only when he flips over and turns his back on the thing that he manages to get some sleep.

In the morning, his alarm dings and it shocks him out of sleep. He swipes the phone up in one hand, prods at it a few times to get it to shut up, and dumps it back on the table. Collapsing back against his pillows, he rubs blearily at his eyes and tries to gather himself in for the day. Steve hadn’t called last night, though he hadn’t expected him to. With all the boxes he’d been carrying, it looked like he may have had a housewarming party last night. Apartment warming? There was more food than he and Tony alone could have eaten at any rate.

Before he can get too wrapped up in thoughts of his own night in alone, Lavender springs up onto the bed. She stares at him for a long moment with curious eyes, but when he reaches out to pet her she ducks over onto the nightstand. Bucky can sense it happening right before it does, but he can’t get his hand out fast enough to catch the phone before she swats at it and sends it flying off the table.

He tumbles out of bed after it, Lav looking down at him with a perfectly innocent expression. He plucks the phone up, turning it over to find the screen shattered and dark.

“Great, Lav,” he huffs. “Now your favorite guy can’t even call me.” He scowls at her till she mewls at him, and then he softens and pets her on the head. “Come on, let’s get you breakfast.”

He dumps the phone on the kitchen counter and doesn’t try to turn it on, whether out of nerves or spite he’s not sure. Maybe it’s a combination of the two. After he’s dressed for the day and on his way to the shop, he pauses in the kitchen to find Lavender nosing at the phone gently.

“At least now I can blame you,” he says, scratching her chin for a moment before heading downstairs.

He’s in the basement with his dad, sanding away at a massive dining table that needs a complete refinish, when his mother pokes her head into the workshop.

“Bucky, dear?” she calls. He glances away from the table to look at her, and she’s got this perfectly painted on smile. Not too big, sweet as anything – the one that means she’s over the moon but trying to hide it.

“What is it?” he asks, setting down the sander.

“Sorry to bother you, but there’s a delivery.”

He frowns. “A delivery? Do you need me to help carry it in?” Usually they went to pick things up, not the other way around, but there wasn’t anything on the schedule about pick-ups or drop-offs today.

“Well, no,” she says. “It’s for you.”

His frown deepens. “For me.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Yes, for you, just go up and see!”

He approaches the stairs slow, hands on hips. On the first step, he pauses to glance over his shoulder at her. “Are you coming back up?”

“Oh no, no,” she says, waving her hands about nervously. “I think I’ll stay down here with your father.”

She never even comes down to the workshop if she can help it, much less lingers. Bucky narrows his eyes at her, but turns and continues up the stairs. He picks his way up the aisle, and between two bookshelves he can just make out someone standing by the counter.

The loose floorboard creaks under his foot. The someone turns around.

Bucky pauses midstride, breath blown out of him. Of course it’s Steve. Completely predictable.

Steve smiles at him shyly, ducking his head. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Bucky returns as he closes the distance between them. He stops at the counter, rests a hand on it, leaving a few feet of space between them.

“How have you been?” Steve asks.

“Oh, you know,” Bucky says, shrugging offhandedly. Steve shakes his head – no, he doesn’t know. “How are you? Big win for the team last week, saw it on the news. That’s great.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You make us sound like a sports team.” He laughs nervously, a soft huff of air. “But yeah, we – we were pretty happy with how that one turned out.”

“You should be,” Bucky assures him. He crosses his arms over his chest like it might quiet the way his heart’s hammering like a kickdrum.

Steve smiles a weird half-aborted smile at him, uneven edges and gentle eyes. “I tried to call, but you didn’t answer so I just came over. I hope that’s okay.”

“The cat broke my phone this morning,” Bucky says. Steve nods, a little pinch between his brows like he might not believe him. “Really, knocked it right off the nightstand.”

“I, um,” Steve starts, looking down at his feet. That’s when Bucky notices the package resting against the counter – the flat rectangle wrapped in brown paper, four feet across. His eyes go wide, and Steve glances back up at him. “I brought something that I want you to have.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, frowning a little. “Should I open it or –“

“Oh, no, I’d be embarrassed if you did.” A bright flush of color blooms over Steve’s cheeks.

“Alright,” Bucky replies, confused. “Thank you. I don’t know why you’re giving it to me, but thank you.”

“I had it in my new place, but I meant for it to be…” Steve pauses and sucks it a ragged breath, hands curling and uncurling at his sides. “I know I should have reached out sooner, but I had some stuff to work on. And then I just didn’t know how, I guess – or if I even should, and it’s just been sitting there. The thing – the thing is…”

Bucky’s not sure he’s ever seen Steve this mixed up for words. He decides to play nice.

“What’s the thing, Steve?”

Steve closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, lets it out loud through his mouth. He looks very tired, Bucky thinks, something deeper than a poor night’s sleep. “This thing is,” he starts again, and opens his eyes to look into Bucky’s. “I know I messed it up, that I hurt you. I was just – I’d never been so scared of losing anyone, not since… It’s been a long time, since I’ve been scared like that, and I didn’t really know how to deal with it. That’s the reason why I behaved like I did, but it’s not an excuse, and I know that.”

Bucky feels a sensation like cool water running over him, something settling. He unwinds his arms from around his torso, lets them hang at his sides

Steve glances down to his hands, then back up to his face, considering. “I’m leaving on a recon mission tomorrow,” he starts, “but I wondered if you might let me see you a little, when I get back. Or a lot, maybe, to see if… we could try to start over, in whatever capacity you’re willing to have me.” He looks winded by the end of it, like it took all his superhuman strength to get those words out into the air between them.

Bucky frowns and stares over Steve’s shoulder, out the window. He can’t quite meet his eye just yet. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“You said you wouldn’t change your mind.” Bucky looks at him then, into the ocean-deep blue of his eyes, and his own chest feels like it’s gone ten times smaller.

“I know that I did.” Steve snorts a laugh, head tipping back to look at the ceiling. “I say that a lot, don’t I?” he says, mostly to himself. He angles his eyes back to look at Bucky and opens his hands to the side, palms up, an offering. “But I had a long time to think about it, and I see now that I was wrong. You had it right. It’s your choice, and I’m sorry that I took that away from you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t see that I was being selfish. I’m sorry for a lot of things. I’m bad at letting myself have good things.”

Just then, the floorboards give a plaintive whine. Bucky pivots to see his parents coming up the aisle.

“Hi, dear, we’re just going out for lunch,” his mother stage-whispers.

His dad gives him an apologetic look as they brush past. Winnie puts out a hand to stop her husband. “Steve, hello again, have you met my husband? Of course you haven’t. Steve, this is George Barnes, Bucky’s father. George, this is Captain Steve Rogers.” She glances pointedly between the two of them until Steve gets the idea and leans forward to shake George’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, George, I’ve heard wonderful things,” Steve says. He only sounds halfway like there’s a swarm of bees trapped in his throat.

“Likewise, Steve,” George says, shaking his hand. Then his grips his wife by the elbow and hurries her out of the store before she can think how to meddle any further.

Bucky lets out a breath as soon as the door swings shut behind them. “Sorry about that.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Steve insists.

Bucky isn’t sure how true that is, but he lets Steve have it. He swallows, a loud click at the back of his throat. “Steve,” he starts, turning to face him. Something in his tone makes Steve’s face fall about twelve feet before he catches it and hauls himself back up. “Thank you for apologizing. It means a lot to me to hear that, and I know it means a lot for you to say it.”

“Thank you for listening,” Steve murmurs.

“I forgive you, and I mean that. I do. Water under the bridge.” He pauses and bites his lip, his stomach all twisted into knots. “But Steve, can I just say ‘no,’ and we leave it at that?”

Steve blinks hard once, twice, three times. “Yeah,” he rasps, nodding with more conviction than Bucky sees in his face. “That’s fine. I will respect your choices.” He cracks a wry smile then, but it falls quickly. “I’ll just – I’ll go, then?” He juts a thumb over his shoulder and turns halfway toward the door, muscle jumping in his jaw.

“The thing is,” Bucky says. After how honest Steve was, Bucky feels that he owes him at explanation at the very least – and he wants to give him one, if halfway to explain it to himself. Steve pivots to face him like a man turns to face a jury he knows is about to convict him. “With you, I am in danger.”

“Oh.”

“No, not like – I didn’t mean it like that. I believe you if you say you’ve changed, but then it seems like the perfect situation, doesn’t it? A dream come true. But if something happened again, if it didn’t work.” He stops, rubs at his forehead a second for continuing. “You’re everywhere, Steve. I know you avoid the media, but it doesn’t avoid you. You would go, and I’d be – well, I’d just be fucked, wouldn’t I? Again. I don’t know if I could do that a third time.”

“I see,” Steve says, though he’s staring at the floor now. “So it’s really a no.”

“I’m sorry about it, Steve, I really am.” And he is, god, has he ever been sorrier about anything? But it just – “But you’re a superhero, and who am I? I’m just a regular Army vet, just some guy. Our circles don’t even touch. Everyone knows who you are. Hell, I’ve known who you are since I was a kid. I’m just some guy, Steve.” He shrugs, big jolt of his shoulders. He feels like he might be sick.

“Fine. Okay, good decision,” Steve says to his shoelaces, nodding like he’s trying to convince himself. He glances up at Bucky from under a thick rim of dark lashes, then lifts his head to look him full in the face. His eyes blaze, cool fire. “You’re more than that to me. You mean so much more than that to me. But don’t forget – the fame thing, it’s not real. It doesn’t matter. The superhero thing? It’s just my job, to help people, normal people like you. You’re the only thing that matters.”

Bucky feels his resolve cracking, hairline fissures radiating out. He grips the counter with one hand to hold himself steady, but Steve isn’t done yet.

“And don’t forget that I’m also just a man, standing in front of another man, asking him to love me.”

Bucky feels it as his heart leaps out of his chest, though he couldn’t tell you where it went. In fact, he seems to have lost track of all his vital organs. He blinks, hard.

Steve looks dismantled, pieces lying out on the floor for Bucky to see, his eyes bluer than they’ve ever been. He takes a step closer, a few thick tears spilling down his face. His leans in, places a tender, searing kiss on Bucky’s cheek, and whispers, “I’m sorry, Bucky. Goodbye.”

It isn’t till he’s out the door that Bucky locates his lungs and remembers how to breathe.

* * *

 “So good decision, right?”

Bucky, Rebecca and Rami are all crowded into Bucky’s living room. They had dropped by to look at some furniture for the nursery that he and his dad had started working on, and ended up staying for lunch when they saw the sight of him.

“Yeah, good decision!” Rami encourages. “Sure he’s good looking, but is it really worth all the baggage?”

And that’s the eternal question. Though Bucky thinks Steve has a lot more going for him than good looks, and it’s not like his own shit fits in a carry-on. He turns to Rebecca, who stares back at Bucky inscrutably, her lips pursed.

“Rebecca? What do you think?”

“You can make your own choices, Bucky,” she says.

She narrows her eyes at him, and he sighs in a big huff. “Spit it out, then.”

“I just think that if you were really confident in your decision, you wouldn’t be asking for our opinion about it,” she says, folding her hands over the bump of her stomach.

Before Bucky has a chance to do more than gape at her, Sam walks in through the open front door, square box in hand. “Hey, Buck, I brought you an apology pie – oh hey, guys!” Sam saunters into the room, dropping onto the couch next to Bucky and handing him the pie box. “What’s up?”

“Bucky here has just turned down Steve Rogers,” Rebecca informs him.

Sam’s jaw pops open with a snap. He leans over and smacks Bucky across the side of the head.

“Ow, what the fuck, Sam! Aren’t you supposed to be apologizing?” Bucky cups the side of his head and glares sideways at Sam, the disloyal bastard.

“I don’t have to apologize to stupid people!” Sam shouts back. He sinks back against the couch, arms folded across his chest.

Rebecca eyes the still-wrapped package where it’s leaning against the wall, under the window. “Why haven’t you opened that yet?”

“Opened what?” Sam asks.

“He gave me something,” Bucky answers. Truth be told he hadn’t opened it because he was scared whatever was inside would make him wish he could change his mind. But he crosses the room and reaches out a hand to pull back the edge of the paper.

“Holy shit,” he breathes once he sees what’s underneath. Warranted fear, then.

“What is it?” Rami asks.

Bucky drops to his knees and tears the rest of the paper away. Inside there’s a painting. The frame is simple stained wood, but the painting – it’s Brooklyn, done in rich browns and softest blues, with visible brushstrokes and a delicate hand. It’s his street, but different, older. It’s his street circa 1940.

He topples out of his crouch to properly sit on the floor, scooting over so everyone else can see.

“Oh,” Sam says. “Yeah, he’s been working on that for a while.”

“He paints?” Bucky hears himself ask.

“Yeah, man, I thought you knew that?”

“I – yeah, I guess I did. I just didn’t…”

“Know how good he was? Yeah.”

“Is that –?” Rebecca starts.

“Our street, yeah,” Bucky answers. “It’s – he gave it to me, and he apologized for everything. He said that he was just a man, standing in front of another man, asking me to love him.”

There’s a beat of silence. He turns around to look at them all – and they’re all looking right back at him, like he’s just done something incredibly stupid and avoidable.

Maybe he has.

“Shit, I made the wrong decision, didn’t I?”

Sam nods like he’s trying to snap his own neck, but Rebecca holds up a hand. “Did he kiss your feet?”

“No, but I think he would have if I told him I wanted him to.”

“Kinky,” Rami says.

Becca thumps her husband on the back of the head, then she turns back to Bucky. She gives him a thumbs up

“Right.” Bucky vaults off the couch and over to the kitchen counter, nudging Lavender out of the way to grab at his phone. He presses the power button, but the screen stays resolutely and frustratingly dark.

“Bucky?” Sam asks.

“Yeah?” he calls over his shoulder, mashing the buttons a few more times just to be sure.

“You really planning on telling Steve you love him over the phone?”

“Who said anything about –“ He spins around to find Sam standing, staring sharply at him. Becca flanks Sam, with her hands on her hips. “Wild guess says no one’s going to let me use their phone.”

“Nope,” Sam says. He scoops the van keys off the coffee table and tosses them at Bucky.

“Alright then, here we go.” Then he’s out the door, on his way to Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Sunday will be the final chapter and the epilogue! Thank you for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

It’s not the hurtling across the city at breakneck speed, car chase kind of scene he’d imagined. The van crawls up FDR Drive what feels like inches at a time, and Rebecca yells at him about his driving from the backseat the entire time. Sam keeps changing the radio station, unsatisfied little huffs every time a new one cranks out something else he doesn’t like. Bucky white knuckles the steering wheel, a low thrum of anxious energy running through his whole body that leaves him practically vibrating in the seat. His nerves are fried, the traffic is thick, gelatinous, and what if they don’t make it on time –

“Dude, your turn signal’s still on,” Rami points out from the back seat.

“Oh, thanks.”

They slug north a few more blocks before getting snared again. Sam settles briefly on a soul station.

“You really sure I can’t call him?” Bucky asks, cutting Sam a churlish look.

“Really sure,” Sam says, one hand tapping out a beat against the lip of the open window. “Like I said, more romantic this way.” He throws Bucky a toothy grin, clearly pleased with the situation since he has little direct emotional involvement.

“That’s a stupid reason.”

“He won’t have his phone on him, anyway. He’ll have been in mission prep all morning.”

Bucky glances at him as he eases the van forward, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yep, pretty much no contact in briefings unless it’s an emergency. Shouldn’t you – don’t you know this?” Sam looks over to him, a little tentative.

“I guess, yeah,” Bucky mumbles, thinking back to last fall. “He never said explicitly that he wouldn’t have his phone on him, just that he’d probably be too busy to answer.”

Sam _mmm_ s and changes the station again.

“Oh, I like this, keep this on – Bucky, change lanes!” Becca calls from the back. Bucky sighs, but flips on his turn indicator and checks his blind spot anyway.

“So you guys really are friends then, huh,” Bucky says as he merges right.

“Yeah, we are.” Sam nods, slow and even. “I should’ve told you, Buck, I know that. It felt like the better option at the time, I guess. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says. And it is, he finds. “It is, it’s – I’m fine with it. I’m glad you’re friends. It’s good. That’s good.”

Sam huffs a laugh, reaching over to clap a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and squeeze. “Well, as a friend of you both, I really hope this all works out.” He glances at the clock on the dash. “Also, you better step on it because they’re due to leave in like – soon.”

Bucky careens up the ramp that takes them toward East 42nd Street, knocked back into the full-body anxiety after a brief respite.

In the end, he’s glad they all insisted on coming along to witness his terrible attempt at a romantic comedy ending. He might have been less at risk of wrecking, but he also might have just turned around without them. Eventually, finally, after what feels like an entire ice age and maybe a few voyages across the entire galaxy – they make it. Bucky pulls up outside of Avengers Tower, and Sam shoves him out of the door, clambering into the driver’s seat after him.

“Go get him, tiger!” Sam crows.

Rebecca cracks the back door open and yells, “I love you, good luck, don’t trip!” Rami whoops from behind her.

And then Sam guns the engine and peels off down the street. And he’s left staring up at this stupidly huge building squatting over top of Grand Central like some ugly bird over its nest for the third time in his life.

He shoves his way through several suited people into the lobby and makes a beeline for the reception desk. The same woman from six months ago glances up when he approaches, decidedly unimpressed by his rumpled, borderline frantic appearance. Whatever, this is an emergency and Bucky did not have time to brush his hair.

“Fiona – it’s Fiona, right?” he asks. She looks down at her shiny nametag, which reads _Fiona_. “Right, Fiona, is Steve still here? Steve Rogers? Has he left on his mission yet?”

Fiona blinks slowly at him, either unaware of or uninterested in his internal struggle. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about Captain Rogers or his whereabouts,” she says, sounding bored and very much unafraid.

“Please, ma’am, this is an emergency – no, no, there’s no need to call security, is there? I’m just trying to tell a man that I love him!”

He doesn’t have time to think about what he’s just said before there’s a hand grasping his elbow, dragging him away, and a voice that says, “Thanks, Fiona, I’ll take it from here.”

Bucky yanks his arm free and whirls around to give the security guard a piece of his mind and –

It really shouldn’t be surprising to run into a superhero in a building that is named for and houses a team of superheroes. It still surprises Bucky to find the Black Widow standing in front of him.

She quirks an eyebrow up at him, her mouth twitching at one corner. “You’re Bucky.” It’s not a question.

“Uh, yes,” he chokes, trying not to think too hard about why the Black Widow recognized him on sight.

“I’m Natasha,” she says, as if he doesn’t know, “and I can only help you if we hurry.”

She seizes his arm again, her grip gentler now, and this time he lets her whisk him away to a set of elevators. She punches in a keycode and a floor level, and then up they go.

Natasha gives his wrist a squeeze and then leans back against the wall to stare at him. He rocks minutely on the balls of his feet, eyes flitting between the rising floor number display to her scrutinizing gaze. His brain is blank blur of anxiety, the buzz of a TV that’s gone out, all white noise. It is simultaneously the fastest and slowest elevator ride of his life, though Bucky admits he has had worse times in one before. And better times. Overall, very midgrade as far as his elevator experiences go.

“You know,” Natasha starts, “we’ve all been wondering when he’d finally do something about this.”

“About what?” Bucky asks.

She waves a hand broadly in his direction, waits a beat for him to get it. He does, and when he feels his cheeks coloring, she shakes her head at him almost fondly. “He hasn’t stopped talking about you in months. It’s almost annoying, actually – but sweet, too.”

“Okay.” He’s not sure how else to respond to that, though it makes the warm flush spread down and settle between his ribs.

“It’s standard, but I have to say it: If you hurt him, I’ll hurt you.” Her eyes narrow dangerously, arms folding over her chest.

“Noted,” Bucky chips, and then her face breaks into a crooked grin and she’s laughing at him.

Just then there’s a soft _ding_ , and the doors slide open to reveal the helipad at the top of the tower. A small aircraft rests about fifty feet away, its engines slowly whirring to life. Bucky balks, cold terror washing over him. What if Steve changed his mind? What if he never wants to see him again? What if Bucky can’t think of the right thing to say? Shit, why didn’t he think of anything while they were stuck in traffic?

“He should be in there,” Natasha says, and he flinches hard. He’d nearly forgotten she was there. “You’d better hurry.” And then she shoves him roughly out of the elevator.

He carries the momentum into a walk, a jog, and then he’s just hauling it across the helipad and right up the lowered back ramp of the jet. “Steve! Steve, are you in here?” he shouts into the bay of the aircraft. He hurtles to a stop at the top of the ramp, doubles over and tries to find his breath, which he may have left somewhere on the ground floor. Or maybe it’s back in Brooklyn with the rest of his good sense.

Steve is there. He’s crouched low over a duffle bag, adjusting something inside, when Bucky makes his grand entrance. He snaps up to standing, and as Bucky drags himself back up too, he notices: Steve’s got the full suit on. He’s never actually seen him in it in person, right down to the helmet pressed snug against his face, bright white A stamped across his forehead. It might be vaguely ridiculous on anyone else, but the way Steve fills it out makes it magnificent, makes him look striking and wonderful. Bucky thinks if this is the last thing he ever sees, he might just be okay with it.

“Bucky?” Steve asks tentatively, like he’s not sure, face pinched in confusion. The color of the uniform makes his eyes pop, richest blue.

“Steve,” Bucky answers, and then his legs carry him forward right up to him. He crowds in close, maybe too close, but he’ll blame it on wanting to be heard over the whine of the engines audible from outside if this goes south. “Hi,” he sighs out.

“Hi,” Steve parrots back, and he’s frowning perplexedly, but he takes a step closer to Bucky anyway. It’s automatic, like he doesn’t even think to do it, just does. Bucky could reach out and touch any part of him, they’re so close. “What are you doing here?”

“I made the wrong choice.”

“You – what?”

Bucky sighs a little bit, a shallow hitch of his breath. He glances down at Steve’s hands, at the fingerless brown leather gloves, and reaches out to take Steve’s left hand in his right. When he glances back up, Steve’s looking down at their hands clasped together.

“About you, Steve. I made the wrong choice about you.”

Steve looks up at him then, meets his eye, and hope slowly overtakes the doubt there. It blooms open, turns to wonder, his eyes widening and a hesitant smile pulling up the corners of his lips, like he can’t believe his own luck. “Really?”

“No, I just hauled ass all the way into Manhattan to yank your chain.” Bucky raises their entwined hands and thumps Steve lightly in the shoulder with them.

“You could’ve just waited till I got back,” Steve says, and he keeps their hands pressed against his chest, shifts them so they rest over his heart. Bucky can’t feel it beating through the thick lining of his tactical vest, but he knows it’s there.

“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one who worries,” Bucky says. He glances away from their hands, back to Steve’s face, and gives a wobbly little smile. “I mean it. I said what I did because I was scared, and I still am. This is – big, this is scary. But I think it’s worth it to try. You’re worth it.”

“Bucky,” Steve breathes, and he’s so close that Bucky can feel the warmth of his breath, taste it on his tongue.

“But you can’t,“ he starts, eyes downcast as he grips Steve’s hand tighter. He reaches his other hand up, the metal one, and his eyes follow as he brings it to curl around the edge of Steve’s jaw. “You can’t run away from me again. Stop running away from fights. You said you never used to. Don’t run away from me again.”

“I won’t,” Steve confirms. Bucky thumbs his jaw, a slow circle, and worries at his own lip. Then Steve’s winding his free arm around Bucky’s waist, and he tows him into a hug. “Bucky, I won’t. I promise,” he says into Bucky’s ear, burying his face in his hair and gripping him tighter. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you.”

Bucky pulls back, just enough to look Steve in the eye. “I love you,” he says – and it’s true, it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. The next breath he hauls in feels like the first real one he’s taken in months. It settles into his lungs like getting your feet back on solid earth after long months at sea, grounding and steady.

“God,” Steve breathes, and he looks overcome. Like it’s a privilege, to hear that from him. Like it means everything. “I love you too, Buck, I love you so much.”

Bucky slides his hand around to cup the back of Steve’s head, metal fingers rasping against the smoothness of his helmet. Steve picks up on his intention and meets him halfway. Their lips connect, and it lights every nerve in Bucky’s body in quick succession. Where their hands are still locked between them, he tangles his fingers with Steve’s gloved ones. Steve’s hand at his back slides down to grip at the jut of his hip, grip firm as he pulls Bucky as close to him as he possibly can, deepening the kiss. Bucky feels warm from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes, all the way down through every part of his body. It’s like the first real day of spring, when it’s finally warm again, everything new and bright and good now that the cold’s finally broken. He wants to bask in it all day, soak up every second.

Just then, there’s a wolf-whistle. “Man, look at you guys go! Steve and Bucky! Hell yeah!”

Steve breaks away from the kiss with a laugh, tipping his head forward to lay on Bucky’s shoulder as his whole body shakes with it. From over Steve’s shoulder, Bucky squints to see none other than Hawkeye sitting in the co-pilot’s seat of the jet. He gives Bucky two thumbs up and a rakish grin.

Bucky loosens his grip on Steve’s neck to flip him off, but it only sets Clint to laughing even harder as he turns back to the controls.

Steve lifts his head to look at Bucky, and everything settles into place. Bucky hasn’t felt this calm in months, maybe years. His sighs with his whole body, a comforting rush of air. A light clicks on in his brain – Natasha helping him, Clint knowing his name.

He really isn’t a secret anymore. They know. His face hurts from smiling.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Steve says, grinning broadly.

“Yeah?” Bucky’s own smile turns the slightest bit mischievous. “You need help on the mission?”

“Oh,” Steve startles. Bucky can’t see it because of the helmet, but he knows Steve’s eyebrows just flew halfway to his hairline. “Well, you’re not briefed for this one, but if it’s something you’re interested in –“

“Steve.”

 “—I could look into it…” He trails off, narrows his eyes at Bucky who’s barely concealing his laughter. “You’re joking.” Bucky does laugh then, and Steve sighs hugely. “Oh, he thinks he’s _funny_. Get a load of _this_ guy. Hey Clint, Bucky thinks he’s funny!” Steve calls over his shoulder without breaking eye contact with Bucky, who’s honest to god _giggling_ , happy hysteria bubbling up out of him.

“What?” Clint shouts, and Bucky can see him fiddling with his ear over Steve’s shoulder.

“What, you don’t like my jokes?”

Steve rolls his eyes at him and pinches his side lightly. “You’re hilarious. If any part of you wasn’t joking though, I was serious when I said I could look into it.”

Bucky pauses briefly, considers it. If Steve asked him, maybe, but – “Nah,” he says with a little shrug, nonchalant. “Thank you, but I did my service. Unlike _some_ people, I don’t particularly enjoy getting punched or shot at.”

Steve scoffs at him. “Whoever said I –“

“Uh, Steve? Not to ruin a moment or anything, but we really gotta get out of here,” Clint calls.

 “Okay, yeah!” Steve calls over his shoulder. He turns back and plants a wet kiss right in the center of Bucky’s forehead, and then one at the tip of his nose, on each cheek, and finally his mouth. It’s soft and almost chaste, sweet as sunshine, better than anything Bucky’s ever felt. His heart feels full, and like it’s sitting right in the middle of his chest. Everything accounted for and right where it should be.

“Go save the world, and come back to me,” he whispers against Steve’s mouth.

“Technically it’s just reconnaissance. We won’t be doing any world saving,” Steve says, pulling back with the stupidest grin stretched wide across his face.

“Oh, _now_ who thinks he’s funny? Can’t I get one dramatic line in without you ruining it for _comedy_?”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry,” Steve says, punctuating each word with a light peck to Bucky’s lips. “I’ll go save the world. I’ll come back. You’ll be around?” He asks it like a genuine question they haven’t spent the last five minutes establishing the answer to.

Bucky rolls his eyes, but it’s halfhearted and fond. “You know where to find me.”

Steve smiles. “Yeah, I do.”


	15. Epilogue

“Bucky?” The shout drifts up from the basement.

“Yeah?” he yells back.

“Where’s that new can of stain?”

“It should just be on the shelf!”

“Okay!”

A pause.

“I can’t find it!”

“Well, I can’t come down there! Becca doesn’t like the baby in the workshop!”

A few minutes later Bucky hears the floorboards creak, and he looks up from his book to see Steve coming up the aisle. He wipes his hands off on a rag and shoves it deep into his pocket. Bucky smiles at him, gives a little wave, then taps at his own temple. Steve reaches up and wipes at the stain there, only succeeding in smudging it into his hairline. But he smiles wide and easy anyway, sliding around behind the counter to loop his arms around Bucky’s shoulders.

“How’s the book?”

“Good – have you read this one?” He flips it shut, leaning back against Steve’s chest and holding up the cover.

“No, can I borrow it when you’re done?”

“What’s mine is yours.”

“You’re a sap,” Steve says, but he smacks a kiss into Bucky’s hair anyway. He pulls away and turns to the little bassinet set up against the wall behind Bucky. “And how’s my sweetness?”

“She can’t answer you.”

Steve pushes at his shoulder. “I know, but you’re supposed to talk to them.”

“Who’s the sap again?”

“I’m the sap who’s gonna get her to say her first words.”

“Yeah, bet her mom will be just thrilled about that.”

Steve doesn’t reply, and Bucky spins around on his stool to face him. He’s crouched in front of the bassinet, a smile that Bucky had once thought was reserved only for him spread across his face. It’s all soft light and warmth – and apparently triggered by Bucky, babies, and sleeping animals. Which maybe says something about the way Steve perceives him, but he’s not about to complain. His niece and Lavender are good company.

Steve reaches a hand into the crib and tickles the baby, just the lightest touch of fingers. Bright peals of laughter fill up the room, a new thing among all these old things. Bucky kneels on the floor beside them and grabs at Steve’s free hand.

“I’m in meetings and training all day tomorrow, but Natasha’s invited us for dinner,” Steve says without taking his eyes off the baby.

“Oh yeah? Who else?”

“The usual suspects – Clint, Sam, Bruce. Becca and Rami can come too, if they want.”

Bucky looks sideways at him, at Steve purposely avoiding eye contact. “Tony?”

Steve snorts and tips his head forward to lean on the lip of the crib. “You ever gonna let that one go?”

“The dude tried to recalibrate my arm while I was taking a nap by the pool!”

“He said he was sorry, which is a lot more than most get from him,” Steve says, lifting his head back up to look at him.

Bucky scowls, committed to it for another beat, and then falls slack. “Fine, fine,” he grumbles, but it’s mostly an act. Tony’s alright usually, and he wouldn’t pass up a chance to see everybody else. Steve smiles at him and squeezes his hand, and they both go quiet for a while crouched over the bassinet. His niece stares back out them, squirming delightedly at the attention.

“Listen,” Steve whispers, like it’s pressing. He glances over to Bucky, and his eyes are anguished. “Can you go find the stain for me? I can’t find it.”

Bucky throws his head back and cackles, falling backwards onto the floor till his back hits the counter. “Are you telling me you’re a fuckin’ superhero, but you can’t find one lousy can of stain?”

 “First of all, I don’t see how those things are related,” Steve fires back, but he’s laughing too. “Second of all, fuck you! Help me!”

In all their fuss, they missed the sound of the door opening.

“Didn’t I tell you two to stop cursing around my baby?” Rebecca leans over the counter, all stern eyebrows and elbows. Bucky cranes his neck to look at her upside down, and Steve has time to look abashed for about half a second before she’s laughing too. Steve straightens up and extends a hand to Bucky, pulling him to standing. He doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Hey, Becca, how was work?” Steve asks.

“Same old, same old,” she says and then tosses a tabloid magazine onto the counter. “You didn’t make the front page this time. Keep it up and the whole country’s going to forget you’re dating.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “That’s kind of the point, sis.”

Steve prods at the magazine like it might be contaminated, grimacing. “You’ve got to stop reading this crap.”

Becca shrugs. “It’s kind of funny when it’s about people you know. And also usually wrong. And also you guys make the best faces when I give them to you, so I’ll stop when you stop being fun to mess with. Now give me my baby back.”

Rebecca pushes them out of the way and picks the baby up from her bassinet, cooing and generally making a fool out of herself, as most people do where babies are concerned. “Hi sweetheart, how was your day? Were your uncles nice to you?” This last question she directs at the men in question.

“We were, and she was a regular peach right back,” Bucky answers.

“Thank you for the help,” she says sincerely, holding her daughter close.

“It’s no problem, you know that,” Steve answers.

“Avengers and company dinner tomorrow night if you’re interested, Becks. Rami’s invited too, obviously.”

“Mmm, I’ll ask him,” she says while gathering her things together. “Have to see if mom and dad can watch the baby.”

“Bet they’ll feel real beleaguered about it,” Bucky jokes. Their parents are nuts over their first grandchild. Becca snorts and grins at him, then she leaves the store with baby in tow. Steve and Bucky wave as she goes, then Bucky turns to Steve with a determined look on his face.

“Okay, let’s go find your missing stain. I swear to god if it’s right there on the workbench, I’m gonna –“

“What?” Steve interrupts, catching him by his wagging hand and leading him towards the stairs.

“Nothing, that threat was completely empty, I’ll probably just kiss you,” Bucky concedes.

Steve grins, pausing at the top of the stairs to draw Bucky into him. “You should do that anyway.”

“Hm,” Bucky says. Steve’s hand is warm where it’s tangled with his. “Maybe I will.”

He leans in, and he kisses him. They’re both still smiling wide, so it’s mostly teeth clacking together, but still sweet as anything. It’s still so surreal to Bucky, that he can do this – not that he can kiss Captain America, but that he can kiss his boyfriend Steve. It bowls him right over, every time.

“I feel like I’ve known you my whole life,” Steve breathes into his mouth, flipping the switch from joking to earnest in an instant.

Bucky huffs a laugh and presses his lips against Steve’s cheek. “Get used to it, pal, because you’re gonna know me for the rest of it, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One big final thank you to everyone for reading! Thank you for going on this little journey with me. What started out as a harebrained idea to steal the plot of a 90s romcom took on a life of its own and surprised me in a lot of ways. Thanks for reading, leaving kudos, leaving comments, bookmarking, all of it. It means a lot to me. And a final plug for my [tumblr](bvckyisms.tumblr.com) if you ever want to chat.


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